


Cliff's Edge

by goldenwatcher



Series: What Happens Next [2]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Rape, Dubious Consent, M/M, Original Character(s), Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenwatcher/pseuds/goldenwatcher
Summary: During an attack, Brother Diarmuid unwittingly gains the help of a vampire. The creature's price for saving his life? Seven nights of companionship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Diarmuid is of age. He is young, but still an adult.

Diarmuid sighed, sending a brief prayer to God for patience as he turned to the man who had addressed them.  The bandit was standing with a dagger at the ready, his two companions flanking him.

 

“I am a monk,” he explained, voice soft with a temperance he couldn’t quite feel.  “We do not collect fortune, instead relying on the generosity of others. We have nothing to give you.”

 

“Travelers on the road with no coin at all?  You lie.”

 

“Please do not do this.  Just let us on our way.”

 

The bandit leader moved forward, perhaps to threaten the monk with his daggers, but Diarmuid’s much larger guardian was suddenly there.  The mute stood between him and the bandits, his presence intimidating as he silently dared the men to attack. They paused, obviously less thrilled with attacking the larger man, but after a heartbeat, they gathered their courage and did.

 

Diarmuid sighed, turning away.  He found a boulder by the side of the road and sat to watch the fight.  He was tired of men throwing their lives away to rob them; it happened with depressing regularity.  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to convince the men to leave them alone. Their clothes were patched in several places after four weeks of wandering all over Ireland, their shoes resoled once or twice.  Their bags were almost threadbare in places and they had little food between them. They did have some coin, but not nearly enough to be worth the trouble of tangling with the mute.

 

One man hit the floor with his own dagger in his belly.  Another sliced at the mute, who narrowly avoided being cut but whose tunic was not so lucky.  Diarmuid hummed softly, digging into his bag for a needle and thread to repair it.

 

It felt so long since they had left on pilgrimage but it had barely been a month.  It sometimes distressed Diarmuid how the mute would kill to save his life, but the bandits and the few others who had tried attacking them simply would not listen as Diarmuid tried to dissuade them.  Most of the people they met, however, were harmless travelers. Some people asked the monk for prayers or blessings, some asked the mute for repairs or miscellanea best left to a large, strong man. Once, someone had thought the robe a disguise and tried to hire Diarmuid as a companion in his bed.  Most of these people offered them food or nightly lodging. Some gave them a few coins. The man seeking a whore learned of his mistake quickly.

 

Diarmuid wondered what was taking so long and frowned.  The mute ws having trouble with the last bandit, a skilled fighter.  The leader was nowhere to be found. Diarmuid shifted his grip on his staff, apprehension sliding through him.  He rose and turned in one smooth motion, blocking the dagger coming at him with his staff. A sharp rap had the weapon spinning free and another knock cracked the man’s rib.

 

“Are you going to leave now?” he asked the wheezing bandit.

 

The man turned and ran as well as he could.  The mute finished off the last bandit and watched the leader leave consideringly.

 

“You wouldn’t let a man sneak up behind me to force me to defend myself, would you?” Diarmuid asked suspiciously.

 

The mute’s eyes widened at the accusation.

 

“Of course you would.”

 

The mute grinned and picked up his bag.  Diarmuid knew his friend wouldn’t leave him in any danger, but he would find opportunities for him to practice defending himself.  Of course, the monk never killed anyone,but a sharp rap from the oak staff was usually enough to dissuade further violence.

 

They had found the staff during their wanderings and the mute had debarked it during the evenings and carefully put a hole about two hands down it.  They had strung the charms Radha, Muirne, and Branna had given them on it. It served as a reminder of home, both the monastery and the clan in the forest.  Then, the mute had taught him how to properly use it.

 

Looking away from his companion, Diarmuid caught sight of something interesting in the distance.  They were on the East coast of the island, possibly a half day’s walk from the cliffs at the water’s edge.  Between them and the sea was a dense forest. For the most part, the two of them had stuck to the roads and paths as they traveled.  They encountered more bandits on the roads, but far more dangerous things dwelled off the trails. They also stayed far away from Norman territory.

 

Diarmuid stepped to the edge of the trees, the mute quickly moving up behind him.  He toed at a rock on the ground, almost hidden by the overgrown grass. The rock was smooth and flat, another similar to it a short distance away.  A few more scattered about, leading off into the trees.

 

“There is a path here,” the monk observed, trying to see farther into the trees.

 

It was not uncommon for them to find a random path and follow it.  They didn’t have a destination in mind for their travels, wandering aimlessly and almost restlessly.  Diarmuid sometimes wondered if they were looking for something that they were unaware of, or maybe they were just running from the memories that haunted them.  Regardless, this path was more overgrown than the usual ones. Still, he found himself curious, and they had little else to do than indulge their whims.

 

Diarmuid stepped forward but the mute caught his arm, staring into the woods with a frown.  “What’s wrong?” the monk asked.

 

The mute, who never revealed his name and Diarmuid respectfully never asked, was a werewolf.  The knowledge had unnerved him at first, but as time went on, it didn’t really seem to affect their lives much.  Sometimes the man was aware of things he wasn’t, his senses sharper than Diarmuid’s. He also healed rather quickly from any wounds, far faster than the human; that and his experience as a soldier during the Crusades often placed the mute squarely before any danger.  The wolf rarely made its presence known and Diarmuid had never seen him change forms.

 

The mute slowly lowered his hand.  If he truly thought the path was dangerous, he would have pulled Diarmuid away.  The wariness made him a little nervous and he considered letting the opportunity pass.  However, when he looked back down the path, a fresh wave of curiosity tugged at him, and he stepped forward.

 

The light darkened slowly, the dense trees swallowing the sky.  Diarmuid could smell the salt tang of the sea and it made something inside his chest ache.  It would be nice to spend the night at the cliffs, watching the stars as the waves crashed as he had done when he was younger.  He could feel the mute at his back, tense as he scanned the dim forest. Neither of them said a word, not unusual for the mute who only ever spoke if they were truly alone, but Diarmuid often chattered.  He was not often as loquacious and philosophical as he had been back at the monastery, the feeling of safety that eased him to idle chatter gone. However, he was thoughtful and curious by nature and he liked to ponder about the world to his companion.  This time, they both walked through the twilight of the woods without comment.

 

Eventually, the mute insisted they stop and rest.  Not long into their journey, Diarmuid had noticed that the smaller rations they had from travel did little to satiate his werewolf companion.  The man had grown thinner as time had passed, so he had started cutting back on his own food, leaving more to the mute. He knew the more frequent breaks were the mute’s attempts to get Diarmuid to eat his fair share.  It had only been a matter of time until the monk had started to wane himself, his once youthful cheeks hollow and dark, and the mute had taken to hunting for small game to supplement their food. Still, eating was a battle of wills between both men, each wanting the other to stay healthy.

 

Diarmuid slowly picked at the bread, gazing through the trees curiously.  “I hear no birdsong or creatures rustling through the leaves. Is it as quiet to you?”

 

The mute nodded as he offered a small piece of cheese to him.  Diarmuid tried to refuse, but it was pressed firmly into his hand.

 

“It’s rather strange.  Even a quiet forest makes more noise.”  He nibbled for a moment, eyes distant. “I wonder what is at the end of the path.”

 

The mute looked ahead as if trying to see.  He suddenly frowned and looked back the way they had come.  After a moment of staring, face set in concentration, he packed up their food and gestured for Diarmuid to rise, having him eat as they walked.

 

“What’s wrong?” Diarmuid asked, looking behind them.  He didn’t see anything, but that wasn’t uncommon between them.

 

The light darkened, though whether that was the thickening wood or the passage of time was hard to say.

 

The mute suddenly stilled, his head cocked. His expression hardened.  “Run, Novice,” he growled softly.

 

Diarmuid dropped the remaining food and ran, following his friend’s command.  It was the only way he knew how to survive in the world.

 

The trees were starting to thin and there was a dark shape against the pale sky and steely sea.  They were almost out of the trees when Diarmuid finally heard the pursuit behind them.

 

The dark form turned out to be a castle, cold and empty on the edge of the cliffs.  It seemed abandoned but there was a solid wood door at the entrance and drapes in some of the windows.  Diarmuid ran out of the trees and looked around. There was nothing but the tower house and the long stretch of cliffs, then cold sea.

 

The mute urged him forward, toward the castle.  They were about halfway across the clearing before their pursuers became visible.  The mute pulled him to a stop, preventing him from continuing to the castle alone.

 

The man at the center was the bandit leader that Diarmuid had spared.  He’d returned with more men, looking pale but determined. “We’ll carve the lives of our men out of your skin,” he snarled.

 

Diarmuid was sure the mute could kill them all.  There was only ten men. But he couldn’t control them well, and it was very possible one of them might ignore the mute and aim for him instead.  In that instance, he would be more of a liability to his friend than a help.

 

The sky was darkening.  The castle was his only chance at protection.  Inside, he could hide from any pursuers. If someone lived there, perhaps they would help.

 

“I can hide inside.”

 

The mute hesitated, looking displeased.  He didn’t object, knowing that Diarmuid was right.  The bandits started forward and Diarmuid turned, racing to the castle door.


	2. Chapter 2

The men broke into a run, three of them pursuing Diarmuid as the others crashed into the mute. The monk reached the door with little time to spare. It was heavy but unlocked, moving smoothly on its hinges. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, ducking into the darkness even as he pulled his hood up. He ignored the staircase to his immediate left and ran into the main room, eyeing the glimpses of doorways in the pale moonlight. He felt around for the edge of one farthest from the entrance and tucked against the arch of stone. There was faint light around the main door, and even that was waning. Soon, he would not be able to see at all.

The door pushed open, the near dark framing the silhouettes of the three bandits. Diarmuid pressed himself hard to the cold stone, a black figure in the darkness. The door closed, then there was some shuffling in the oppressive silence. He heard the strike of flint and steel and his throat tightened. He would be done for if they managed to light candles.

“Come out, little monk,” the leader purred in the dark. “Face your death like a real man.”

There was a noise from the stairs. The strike of flint and steel continued until there was a small flair as a wick caught. Diarmuid blinked in the after images and saw only two men. The bandits looked around, noting the few rooms and started at the door closest to them. A second candle was lit as the first room was cleared. A loud thump came from upstairs, like a heavy weight hitting the floor.

“Useless sack of shit,” one man muttered, heading up the stairs. “You coming?”

The third man eyed the two remaining doors suspiciously. “Gonna finish down here first.”

One light disappeared up the stairs and one ducked into the second room. Diarmuid took the chance to look around, to see what his options for hiding were. He didn’t have time to make it to the castle door and open it, and he would certainly be caught if he stayed where he was. All that was in the room with him was old rotting furniture. One piece appeared to have been a bench of some kind. It wouldn’t hide him well and Diarmuid suspected he’d have better luck hiding in the corner by the door and striking while the man’s back was turned. He tucked in and made himself as small as possible, watching as the light moved closer. It entered the room like a star, the bandit’s form filling the small doorway. As if he knew exactly where to find his prey, he turned his head and looked right at Diarmuid.

Then something changed. The man stiffened. His fingers twitched, causing him to drop the candle. A voice from outside of the room said, “Come out where I can see you. I mean you no harm.”

Diarmuid hesitated, unsure if the voice meant him, but who else could it have been talking to? He wasn’t sure he could trust the assurance of safety, especially not knowing who spoke. The bandit in the doorway was almost frighteningly still, eyes rolling with panic. Diarmuid didn’t know who was behind the man or what was being done to make him so stiff and afraid. What he did know was that it wouldn’t help him to stay hidden. All the owner of the voice would have to do is step into the room to see him. Diarmuid rose slowly. Keeping his distance, he moved to face the door.

Behind the bandit was a tall man, thin and pale. He had dark red hair and green eyes that caught the firelight and sparkled like gems. One hand held the bandit by the back of the neck. The other was empty and loose by his side, so Diarmuid was unsure how the bandit was being controlled. Surely the grip was not all that held him?

The other man studied him in return, eyes trailing. “A monk,” he murmured softly. “And so young.”

“Are you the owner of this tower?” Diarmuid asked.

“That I am.” He seemed amused.

“My apologies, then, for invading your home. We were set upon by bandits--”

“You needn’t apologize,” the man interrupted. “Not yet. But I think you’ll find that, while I don’t fret at your actions, you will at mine.”

The hand that had been holding the bandit by the neck was in the man’s hair between one blink and the next and jerked his head to the side. Then the redhead was on him, mouth fastened to his neck. The bandit twitched, his hands thrashing for a moment as he struggled, but there was nothing for him to hold on to.

Diarmuid watched in horror, trying to understand what he was seeing. The bandit’s eyes rolled up and he jerked again, sinking back. The redhead wrapped an arm around him, holding him still, almost like an embrace. Diarmuid took a half step back, his mind racing over all of the tales he’d heard from Brother Rua and the others at the monastery.

The redhead’s mouth finally moved from the bandit’s neck. Blood coated his lips and glinted off of two long, needle-like fangs.

Diarmuid stumbled back, his heart racing. Despite the mute being a werewolf, they had not met any other fey creatures on their travels, but of course there had to be some throughout the island. Unlike the werewolf, whom experience had Diarmuid questioning whether the man’s soul was automatically damned, vampires actually were. Otherwise, why would they have found no rest upon death?

The vampire licked his lips clean, then casually broke the bandit’s neck with a sharp twist of his hand. He eyed the oak staff Diarmuid held with some amusement. “Come, monk. Shall we see how the wolf fared?”

Diarmuid had no intention of going near the creature. He stayed back, still ready to protect himself.

The amusement only grew. “I have all eternity to stand here, young one.”

The implication was, of course, that Diarmuid was mortal and would die long before the vampire gave in. The mute would come looking for him before either of them would acquiesce.

“I am sated,” the vampire continued. “Come now. If I wanted to harm you, monk, I certainly could, and your stubbornness would not protect you. I just wish to speak with you, but if you prefer to do so without your pet, we can begin now.”

“What have we to talk about?” Diarmuid asked.

“For starters, your invasion of my home.”

Diarmuid had to admit that was deserving of some recompense. He also did not want to make any deals with the vampire. He needed the mute’s help. Would the man even speak?

He hesitated a moment longer but then stepped forward warily. The vampire politely moved back, giving him room to avoid the bandit’s body and pass to the main door. Diarmuid opened it and stepped outside, uncomfortable with the vampire trailing behind him.

It was full dark. The bodies of the bandits were strewn about in a bloody mess across the grass. The mute had already started toward the castle but hesitated when he saw Diarmuid. He took in the man behind the monk, then nearly launched forward to protect the human. He was stilled by the vampire putting a hand on Diarmuid’s shoulder.

“I find it interesting that a holy monk would travel with a werewolf,’ the vampire said, voice light as if having a casual conversation. “I would think it an act if I did not sense God’s touch on him. I do wonder who is the master, and who is the pet.”

“We are equals,” Diarmuid replied, his voice steady and calm even as his body was stiff from the redhead’s grasp. “Speak your grievance.”

“No grievance. More of a blessing. You broke into my home, where I saved your life three times over. Your life is mine.”

The mute nearly snarled, but a small gesture from Diarmuid kept him contained. “You could have said that inside the castle. Instead, you wanted to come outside and meet my companion. My life is not what you want.”

“Perceptive.” The word was purred, heavy with approval. “I will give up my right to your life for another prize. Instead, I want what he has.”

The novice and the mute exchanged a glance. “Which is?”

“Companionship. You stay here with me for seven days and our debt is cleared.”

The mute shook his head immediately and gestured to his mouth.

“What is this?” the vampire asked.

“He is a mute. He does not speak. He is concerned about food: what I will eat, and what you will.”

“A wolf that does not howl,” he murmured. “This is where he comes in. I have some provisions for mortals, but he can hunt to supplement them. And he will heal quickly, enough for me to feed from him nightly.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“As I said, companionship. It has been a long time since I’ve had agreeable company. From sunset to sunrise, you will spend your time with me. After seven nights, you will be free to leave.”

Diarmuid was very aware of the hand on his shoulder, light but threatening. The vampire could easily kill him. “I have the right to refuse activities?”

“And I have the right to try and coax you, but you may not leave my presence unless I dismiss you.”

The mute obviously wanted to refuse, but he too saw the threat of that hand. He looked to Diarmuid, as if asking what he wanted. The novice shook his head slightly. “It's your choice. He’s going to be feeding from you.”

It really wasn’t much of a choice, however. They were trapped, Diarmuid defenseless against a vampire. The mute slowly nodded.

“We accept,” Diarmuid said softly.

“Wonderful,” the vampire replied, releasing the monk’s shoulder. “I am Ronan. Feel free to go inside and pick a room. You’ll know which ones to avoid. I’ll clean up.”

Ronan and the mute passed each other as one headed for the bodies, the other to Diarmuid’s side. The tension was palpable but they did not end up snarling. Once the mute reached him, he gently took hold of the younger man’s chin and studied his neck, looking for a bite.

“I’m fine,” Diarmuid murmured. He couldn’t help but study the vampire. Ronan was the first fey creature he’d seen beside the mute, and like the mute, he seemed strangely normal. He was grabbing the bodies, shuffling through the clothing for anything useful, then carrying them to the cliff and tossing them into the sea.

“What do you know about vampires?” he asked softly, hoping Ronan was far enough away to not overhear them.

The mute looked at the redhead, then back to Diarmuid and pointed at the sky.

“Wait for day. Alright.” He looked at the castle. The full moon lit the walls in an unearthly light, making everything painfully beautiful. He walked toward the door, feeling as if a string centered through his gut was guiding him onward. It was a helpless sort of feeling. He could only speculate on the danger he and the mute would face in the coming days. He didn’t quite believe that Ronan wanted only companionship. That he was required to be with the vampire his every waking moment was a bit suspect. He wondered what the vampire expected him to do.

He opened the door, looking around again. The candle that was dropped had gone out, so the moonlight through the door was the only illumination. In one room was a candelabra and some nicer furniture than the rotting pieces in the room he’d hidden in, but there were no candles in the sconces.

“I don’t think I’m going to see anything like this,” he said, peering into the darkness.

The mute skipped that level, going up the stairs. Diarmuid followed, wondering if maybe they shouldn’t go deeper into the vampire’s domain.

The next floor was open, just a large space. The windows were uncovered, allowing in the moonlight and the sounds of the sea. There was an opening in the wall for a fire although one could hardly call it a proper fireplace. The mute, his eyes better able to adapt to the darkness than Diarmuid’s, crossed the room to it. He laid down, putting his head inside to check the flue.

“It’s clear.”

Diarmuid nearly leaped out of his skin, whirling around. Ronan stood just at the door, studying the monk even as his guardian swiftly rose to his feet.

“The food stores are on the level above, along with candles. I do ask that you are conservative with the candles; it is rather difficult to replenish my supply.”

“You’re not worries about the food?” Diarmuid asked.

The vampire shrugged. “Seeing is not necessary. Eating is. Besides, there is a fireplace on all three upper levels and plenty of wood to burn. The candles are a luxury.”

“What is on the top floor?”

Ronan’s eyes glittered in the moonlight. “My den.” He turned and left, heading back down the stairs.

They set up a camp of sorts around the fireplace. The mute grabbed wood, candles, and food from the floor above. He gave some to Diarmuid to eat as he set up the fire, then ate himself. The candles he set aside in case they were needed. It was a little early yet for them to make camp, but they didn’t have much of a choice. The mute could have gone hunting, but he didn’t seem to want to leave Diarmuid alone with the vampire, which the younger man appreciated.

Diarmuid took the opportunity to mend their clothes, having nothing else that needed his attention. He worked silently, his tendency to chatter tempered by a month of being on the road. Unnecessary noise was often unwise.

It was several hours later when a nudge drew Diarmuid up, blinking at the room. He looked at the mute, then down at the tunic in his hand. He realized he had nodded off, but he wasn’t sure why the mute had awakened him.

“Is something wrong?” he murmured thickly, quickly coming to his senses. His time at the monastery had taught him how to rouse swiftly.

The mute shook his head, but then pointed to the window.

Diarmuid got up and walked over, looking around at the forest below before glancing at the moon. “The hour is quite late. We should sleep.” He paused, looking at the mute. “Or I suppose not. I will have to be awake from dusk to dawn, won’t I?”

The other man nodded. He then clasped his hands before him and lowered his head, glancing up through his lashes at Diarmuid.

“You want me to lead a prayer?” He walked back over and knelt, thinking a moment. After a pause, he started to softly sing a chant.

The mute listened with silent reverence. It was as good of a distraction as any, but as lengthy as the chants could be, it eventually ended. By then, Diarmuid was swaying slightly, his eyes obviously heavy. He blinked sleepily, feeling deeply content before the warm fire, his companion by his side. He was a little frightened when he considered what tomorrow might bring, but that was a problem for then.

Hands guided him to his bedding. He blinked up at the mute, then nodded. No sooner had his head settled than he was asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Diarmuid awoke to dusky light.  He looked around, quickly taking stock of the room and all of the changes that had taken place.  The windows were covered in whatever cloth could be found, letting little light in. Diarmuid could clearly see but it was  like early twilight. The fire in the hearth was banked, and the mute was between him and the door, obviously guarding him from their host.

 

He sat up, blinking.  In the dimness of the room, he couldn't tell what time of day it was.  He only knew it was later than he normally slept. He stood carefully, trying to avoid disturbing his friend.  He went to a distant window at the back of the room and pulled back the cloth just enough to see. It was late morning still, which was far too early for him to be awake if he was to be up all night.

 

Movement stirred across the room and Diarmuid allowed the cloth to drop back.  He looked at the mute, hoping the lessening of the light would allow the man to drift back into sleep.  Instead, he found dark eyes watching him.

 

“I couldn’t sleep any longer,” Diarmuid murmured.

 

The mute perked his head a moment, listening.  “You can nap later,” he said softly.

 

It always warmed Diarmuid to hear his friend’s voice.  “Have you ever known me to take a nap?”

 

The mute smiled and beckoned him over.  “One moment of sloth will not hurt.” He pulled out some of the food supplies he’d taken from upstairs and split it as Diarmuid sat across from him.  “I don’t think we should run,” he started.

 

Diarmuid looked at him in surprise.  “It had not occurred to me to do so. I gave my word.”

 

“That was also not wise.”

 

“Did we have another choice?”

 

The mute picked at the food silently.  He finally sighed and shook his head.

 

“What are we dealing with?” Diarmuid asked.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

The monk paused, blinking at him.  “You don’t know.”

 

“I've never met a vampire either.”

 

Diarmuid looked down at the food.  He didn’t know why he assumed the mute would know something, but the reason why not made sense.  “Well, he has fangs, drinks blood, and is very strong.”

 

“He is not dead,” the mute added.  “I have actually seen a walking corpse.  The dead smell different. Cold.”

 

Diarmuid frowned.  “But then why drink blood?”

 

“Why drink blood when you’re dead?” his friend returned, amused.

 

One corner of Diarmuid’s mouth quirked.  “I suppose that’s true.” He chewed on some salted meat, thinking.  “If I recall, the upper level of the tower house has its windows completely blocked out.  Ronan did not need the candlelight to move around, which tells me he’s used to darkness. That and the nighttime visits lead me to believe something about the day or sun is problematic for him.”  He looked at the mute, concerned. “How do you know you will survive feeding him?”

 

“He seems to think I will.”  The mute picked at his food, shredding it to pieces.  He finally sighed and looked at Diarmuid. “We don’t know if he has any of the powers vampires are rumored to have or what he wants with you.  This doesn’t make sense.”

 

“If he is lonely, it makes plenty of sense.”

 

“He is a predator.”

 

“So are you,” the monk said softly.

 

He couldn’t argue with that.  He looked down at the mess he made with a frown.  Diarmuid knew there was a difference between the two, that the werewolf would never hurt him, but they just didn't know enough about the vampire to guess at his motives.  He leaned forward and cupped the mute’s cheek. When he looked up, the two leaned into each other, sighing at the familiar comfort of closeness.

 

“It will be alright,” Diarmuid murmured, almost like a prayer.  “We must have faith and strength to see us through it.”

 

The day was spent with the mute exploring the first three floors of the castle then doing some hunting.  Diarmuid stayed on their floor, trying to rest while he could. He managed to drowse a few times, but largely paced about, unused to such inactivity.

 

The light behind the curtain slowly began to wane.  Diarmuid went to a window and looked outside. He saw the mute below, cleaning his kills.  Both men watched as the sun slowly slid down behind the line of the trees, unsure what to expect.

 

At first, there was nothing.  The mute finished with the rabbits and brought them up to Diarmuid.  They set up a makeshift spit, leaving the game to roast. It was not ideal as they would need to be turned, but it was what they had.

 

The mute stilled, his eyes going to the door.  Diarmuid followed his gaze. Ronan stood in the doorway, awaiting the two of them expectantly.

 

“If you would be so kind as to follow me,” he murmured.  He obviously expected to be obeyed as he turned and headed down the stairs.

 

Diarmuid felt his friend’s eyes on him but said nothing.  What was there to say? He rose and followed Ronan down, the mute close behind him.

 

Ronan gestured for them to enter one of the small side rooms on the first floor.  In it was a lit candelabra, a set of shelves full of bound books, parchments, and scrolls, a couch, and a pallet on the floor behind it.  There was a skin of water and dried food on a plate by the pallet. Ronan gestured for Diarmuid to sit on the couch on the side closest to the door.

 

“Are there any questions before we begin our agreement?” the vampire asked politely.

 

The mute stayed silent, leaving Diarmuid to speak for them.  However, they had not considered having the opportunity to ask questions.  “How will he be affected by your feeding from him?”

 

Ronan looked at the mute with interest.  “He will be tired, but should recover quickly.  My kind have some influence over wolves, but less so over their larger cousins.  If it were not for you, he might have been more agreeable to me. The bite can be pleasant, and I’ve no interest in antagonizing him by not making it so.”

 

Diarmuid frowned, unsure why he would have influence with two such creatures.  “Why does my presence change things?”

 

“You are his pack, likely the only one he has.  He is afraid for you in my presence, so he will see me as the enemy as long as you are here.”

 

“And the pallet?”

 

“For him.”

 

“He is not a dog.”  He tried to stay calm but he hated when people treated the mute as a lesser being.

 

“He will be tired.  He can lay down without blocking the door and still watch you.”  Apparently, Ronan was finished with the questions because he gestured the mute forward.  “Come.”

 

The mute glanced first at Diarmuid before stepping forward to face Ronan.  He extended his arm, palm up, to the vampire. Ronan took it as if he’d been expecting that but Diarmuid was a bit surprised.  He’d thought it had to come from the throat, although there was no real reason to expect so. Ronan lifted the mute’s wrist to his mouth and bared his fangs before sinking them in.  A small wince crossed the mute’s face but was quick to clear. He watched the vampire bent over his wrist, and Diarmuid was shocked to see his expression slowly drift into something pleasant, almost dreamy.

 

Then Ronan lifted his head.  He casually licked the blood from the mute’s wrist as the wound healed over, then touched his own lips to make sure there was no mess.  The mute swayed slightly, then turned to the pallet and sank down.

 

“Well, that was invigorating,” Ronan murmured, sitting on the couch by Diarmuid.  The mute started on the water and food, slowly coming back to himself.

 

“What did you do to him?” Diarmuid asked, frowning.

 

“I told you I can make it pleasant.  Ordinarily, the sensation is rather painful.”

 

Diarmuid seemed unsure, but he turned back to face the vampire.  “What now?”

 

Ronan shrugged and favored the monk with a small half smile.  “Now, we talk. Or read.” He gestured to the books. “I rather enjoy my literate companions to read to me.”

 

Diarmuid studied the bookshelf.  “What languages are they in?”

 

“None are Irish, unfortunately.  Most are French, some Italian and German, English, and a small few Latin.”

 

“What are they about?”

 

Ronan’s smile slid into something more wicked.  “Oh, this and that. These are quite rare, as most people will not waste such time and energy on stories.”

 

“Stories?” Diarmuid asked, a little surprised.  “They are fables?”

 

“Works of the imagination.  Tales to inspire. I do not collect many of the ones in Latin as I’ve no interest in the religious imagery.  However, most of these are…” Ronan hesitated, favoring Diarmuid with a pointed grin, “quite unique.”

 

He rose, walking to the bookshelf.  His hand stroked the tomes until he came to a slender binding and pulled it free.  “Do you speak French, Brother Diarmuid?”

 

“I do not.”

 

“Are you familiar with any foreign tongue beyond English and Latin?” Ronan opened the book, thumbing through the pages.

 

“Unfortunately, no.”  He had to admit that the idea of an imagined story recorded down intrigued him.  He hadn’t known it was done.

 

“Alas,” Ronan murmured.  He closed the book. “These are not suitable material for a monk, particularly one as young as you.  Perhaps the French ones, but no.”

 

The monk frowned slightly.  He was very curious now, but he also suspected that was Ronan’s plan.  Still, he couldn’t fathom any harm coming from a story. “May I see it?”

 

He quirked an eyebrow.  “It would be the height of rudeness to deny my guest such an easily-fulfilled request.  I have a condition, however.”

 

“What might that be?”

 

“I did not lie when I said I enjoyed being read to.  I miss the sound of other voices. If you read it, I ask you do so aloud, and completely.  There is nothing more irksome than a story abandoned.”

 

Diarmuid considered the request.  He would have no choice but to continue if he started, but he didn’t see any harm in humoring the vampire if it meant spending the evening in such a safe manner.  “Is it not your choice how we spend our time?”

 

“Oh no, little one.  This one will be your choice.”

 

Diarmuid glanced at the mute but the man just shrugged, also bemused.  He turned back and reached his hand out for the book.

 

Ronan moved back to his seat beside Diarmuid.  He sat relaxed and still, the wicked smile back as he placed the small book into Diarmuid’s hand.

 

Diarmuid opened the book carefully, studying the script.  He glanced over at the mute. The man was slowly eating, no apparent curiosity.  He wasn’t sure if he should translate while he read, but he didn’t know if he needed to.  It was entirely possible the mute knew Latin. He looked back down and carefully started to read.

 

It wasn’t uncommon for him to read aloud from a book or parchment, but it was usually the Bible.  This told the story of a man named Octavius and a search for a friend who has disappeared during the last Crusade.  He wasn’t sure he understood the point of it, incurious about this tale. Ronan, however, seemed to enjoy it. He watched Diarmuid with a small smile on his face, relaxed next to the monk.

 

He didn’t get far into the story when Octavius found his friend.  It seemed awfully quick to reach a conclusion. Diarmuid was halfway through a sentence before he trailed off, blinking at the book.  He re-read the words on the page, sure he didn’t understand it correctly. He flipped the page, looking ahead. A blush slowly crept over his cheeks.

 

“Why do you hesitate?” Ronan asked calmly.

 

Diarmuid closed the book.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand the point of such a story.”

 

“To titillate and excite, particularly when one might be lonesome.”  Ronan took the book and opened it back to the correct page before holding it back out to Diarmuid.  When the monk hesitated to take it, he tutted. “Come now, dear Brother. I enjoy the sound of your voice, the way your tongue slides over the words.”  He smiled slightly when Diarmuid’s blush darkened. “Do continue, little monk,” the vampire purred. “After all, you agree you would finish it if you started, did you not?”

 

Diarmuid wanted to argue, but Ronan was right; he had agreed.  He reluctantly took the open book back. “I did not know the nature of the story.”

 

“Next time you will remember to ask.”

 

The difficulty with the young monk reading an erotic story in a second language was that he did not know many of the words.  Some of the acts he read, he knew the words for and it left him flustered and uneasy. Other parts, he stumbled over words he did not know.  Ronan calmly corrected his pronunciation then translated into precise Irish. It didn’t take long before the mute was sitting up, a deep frown on his face as he watched Diarmuid’s discomfort.

 

He wasn’t even sure why Ronan was enjoying this.  His telling of the story was floundering. The vampire had to have it known by route if he could tell Diarmuid the words without looking at the page.  The only pleasure to be gained was in the youth’s humiliation. He prayed that something would interrupt and rescue him from this nightmare but it was a torment he had thrust upon himself.  Nothing would end it but the story’s conclusion.

 

Diarmuid was acutely aware of the other two men in the room.  Reading the story would not be so discomforting if he’d been able to be silent, or if it was just him and the mute.  As it was, it reminded him terribly of the camp of Daithi and how vulnerable the man’s assault had made him feel. He felt his eyes cloud, tears threatening to fall, but he bit them back.  He would not be undone by a fake story.

 

Fingers touched his chin, silencing his words.  His head was tipped up to face Ronan. Verdant eyes studied him, noticing the wetness of Diarmuid’s lashes.

 

“Someone hurt you,” the vampire observed.

 

“Many people have,” Diarmuid responded.  He wasn’t interested in sharing his story, but pain had been like a second companion the past month.

 

“This is different.  You are so young, a novice still.  I had thought you brought up in your monastery.”

 

“I was.”

 

“Then it was recently.  A young man, chaste by lack of opportunity is often ripe with curiosity.  Discomforted, flushed, and flustered, yes. Distressed to tears is new.”

 

Diarmuid snapped the book closed, his eyes narrowing.  “You’ve done this before.”

 

“Of course,” Ronan replied, not the least bit repentant.  “No one ever thinks to ask what the story is about.”

 

He grit his teeth, his eyes nearly black as he glared.  “You tricked me.”

 

“Perhaps, but I did not lie and you agreed of your own will.  A minor manipulation, rather than a trick.” Before Diarmuid could speak further, Ronan raised his hand to stop it.  “It does not matter if I did. We do what I will. I was merely making you a willing participant rather than a slave of my desires.  It makes the night more pleasant for the both of us.”

 

“This has hardly been pleasant,” Diarmuid almost growled.

 

“That was the point.”

 

He breathed deeply, holding his frustration in check, but just barely.  “You are unclear. You say you want this to be pleasant, but your goal was unpleasantness.”

 

“Arousal is often both.”

 

Diarmuid froze.  “Arousal.”

 

“Of course,” Ronan murmured.  The intensity of his gaze made the younger man want to edge back.  “An erotic story to see how you would react. A fantasy you had perhaps never allowed yourself to imagine.  It is beautiful to watch growing awareness to blossom in a chaste virgin, and you are an uncommon specimen. You are still a virgin, I hope?”

 

The monk flushed darkly.  He didn’t know how to react to the bold question or such elegant flattery.  A growl trickled through the room, interrupting his thoughts as he tried to avoid the question.  On the pallet, the mute snarled at the vampire, although his eyes stayed a human brown.

 

“Be silent, wolf,” the vampire said coldly.  “He is here to pay for his life. You are merely a convenient meal and are unnecessary.”

 

“The price for my life was companionship,” Diarmuid interrupted.  “A companion is not required to answer all questions posed and I will not answer that one.”

 

Ronan considered him for a long moment.  Diarmuid had learned long ago how to suppress the urge to squirm, although he wanted to.  Instead, he remained placid and observant.

 

“How about you give me the tale of how a novice monk ended up so far from the nearest monastery?”

 

“I walked,” Diarmuid replied blandly.

 

“Diarmuid,” Ronan murmured.  He looked up, meeting those verdant eyes, like fresh spring leaves.  It reminded him of a warming sun, a soft breeze scented with flowers and grass, the cool spray of the ocean invigorating rather than biting.  His body relaxed at the peaceful memory, his mind drifting in soft grass. “Diarmuid, tell me why you left.”

 

“I was sent on pilgrimage with three of my brothers.”  The memory was distant, almost like a dream. “We were to take a holy relic to Rome at the behest of our Most Holy Pope.”

 

“Did you succeed?”

 

“No.  The Lord Raymond de Merville tried to steal the relic.  My friend and I were the only survivors.”

 

Ronan blinked.  “I had heard of the murder of the Norman.  That was you?”

 

“I did not kill the Lord de Merville.”

 

“Your werewolf did?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ronan glanced at the mute, who looked furious at the vampire and distressed for the youth.  “Who did you kill, little monk?” he asked in amusement.

 

“The Cistercian, Brother Geraldus.”

 

Both men’s attention snapped to the monk.  The vampire had expected the answer to be no one, while the mute had only heard that Geraldus had drowned.

 

“How?” Ronan asked.

 

“I kicked him out of our boat and he drowned.”

 

Ronan cokced his head, intrigued.  “Why did you kick him out?”

 

“He was strangling me.”  Diarmuid continued to stare forward, untouched by whatever distress the memory might hold.

 

Ronan considered him, looking the placid young man over.  “Have you ever been kissed, Diarmuid?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you enjoy it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Would you want to be kissed again?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ronan looked sideways at the furious wolf, smirking.  “By who?”

 

Diarmuid hesitated, his gaze flicking about in the middle distance.  He seemed unsure. “Branna,” he finally said. “Muirne. My friend.” He seemed like he might have said more, but he closed his mouth.

 

Ronan was tickled by the startled wolf.  “Your friend? Do you mean the werewolf?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ronan stood up, causing Diarmuid to blink.  He seemed suddenly aware of the room around him, glancing about in confusion.

 

“We should stretch our legs for a time,” Ronan said.  “I will find your when I am ready to continue.” He left.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've been ill and unable to focus on editing.

Diarmuid almost protested, but he was a little disoriented. He didn’t remember what they had been talking about just then. He turned and looked at the mute to ask what had happened, but the man looked both enraged and uncomfortable, which alarmed Diarmuid.

“What happened?” he asked, heart pounding.

The mute shook his head, unable to answer in their current situation. He rose, then gestured for Diarmuid to follow. The younger man hesitated, but answers were not going to be found sitting there. He rose and followed the mute outside.

The night was clear, the stars bright and plentiful. The moon was waning, only the slightest sliver missing as it had been truly full just the night before. The sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs and the smell of the salt sea caused a deep pang of yearning in the monk. He walked over to the cliffs and watched the rolling sea and silver spray, enchanted by its inky colors in the night. A wave of homesickness crashed through him like the water into the cliffs. He felt the mute just behind him.

“I want to go home,” he confessed softly, watching the water below. “I want to forget about bandits and Normans and werewolves and vampires. I wish the most painful thing I needed to do was collect razor clams, not wonder what a vampire has done this time.” He finally turned his head, looking at the mute. He no longer was worried, just extremely weary. It concerned him that they were only halfway through the first day. How was he going to manage another six? But he had suffered worse; he had to simply keep going.

“Can you tell me what happened yet?” Diarmuid asked.

The mute looked around. He seemed unsure, no doubt unable to tell if the vampire was around.

“It’s alright,” Diarmuid reassured him, turning back to the sea. “We’ll talk during the day.”

To his surprise, the mute stepped up behind him, pressing their bodies together. Arms went around Diarmuid’s waist and the mute buried his face into the pale neck before him. Diarmuid grasped his forearms with his hands, about to question the sudden affection when the mute began to murmur into his skin.

“He enchanted you,” the mute said, so softly that it would have been difficult to hear over the waves if not for how close he was. “He asked you many questions and you were forced to answer them, about the pilgrimage, the Cistercian’s death, and about kissing.”

Diarmuid’s hands tightened on the mute’s arms, his eyes staring blankly ahead. “What about Geraldus?”

“He had you explain what happened and what he did to you, how he strangled you.”

He swallowed, the memory still painful. “And the kissing?”

The mute wanted to bury his face and not respond. “He wanted to know if you’d been kissed, if you liked it, and who you’d want to kiss you.”

Diarmuid frowned, considering those questions. “Did I answer?” he asked. He didn't know who he’d want to kiss him.

“Yes.”

“You are not much stretching your legs,” Ronan said, startling Diarmuid. The vampire was not far, watching the pair of them.

An intense dislike flashed through the monk but he smothered it. “The sea reminds me of home.”

Ronan’s eyes flicked toward where the mute had pressed against Diarmuid’s neck. The wolf narrowed his eyes and ran his cheek over the huan’s jaw, the action both protective and possessive. For his part, Diarmuid remained still, even when Ronan’s eyes narrowed in displeasure. A soft growl of warning rumbled from the mute as his arms tightened slightly on Diarmuid. The younger man suddenly wondered if the two fey creatures were fighting over him. That had the potential of being exceptionally dangerous for the human in the middle.

“Shall we continue back inside?” he asked, trying to stop the rising tension between the other two.

“Will your pet allow it?” Ronan asked, his eyes almost glowing in the bright moonlight.

“He is not my pet.”

“Your master then. He looks about ready to mount you like some bitch in heat.”

The mute snarled. Diarmuid considered turning his head to see that it was the man he was still dealing with, but in case it was not, he didn’t want to be face to face with the wolf. He also thought of asking Ronan if he was jealous, but goading the vampire didn’t seem wise.

Not that he could simply ignore Ronan’s taunt. He knew the wolf was protective and a bit possessive of him, but the description of him being mounted made him uneasy. He didn’t dare pull away, however, knowing how that would be seen as a rejection.

“I have promised you companionship,” Diarmuid replied calmly. “He will not cause me to break my word.”

“Of course not,” Ronan purred. “If he did, your life would be mine, not his.”

He had enough of that threat. “My life was sworn to God long before I met either of you. If you want it, you may discuss it with him. In the meantime, my thanks for your assistance is my companionship. Accept it or not; I owe you nothing further.”

Ronan’s face twisted with rage. However, he didn’t immediately reply, looking the monk over. “Perhaps,” he finally said, ad Diarmuid wondered what he meant. “Let us then continue inside, as you said.” He turned and walked away, obviously expecting them to follow.

Diarmuid sighed softly, looking up at the moon. As near as he could tell, it was still several hours before dawn. He moved to step forward, but the tight hold on him did not ease. He finally turned his head and, although he had been expecting it, the golden gaze of the wolf so lose to him was startling.

“I have promised to do this,” he said softly. “Please do not fight with me on this. We can discuss it during the day, , if you wish.”

 

The wolf stared silently, not acknowledging his words, then the creature released him. However, as Diarmuid turned to follow the vampire, the wolf was hot on his heels.

They reseated themselves as they were before, although now there was wine and food by Diarmuid’s seat.

Diarmuid looked to the vampire, waiting for him to decide what they would do next.

Ronan wasted no time, or truly any pleasantries. He was apparently still perturbed about what had happened outside. “Tell me about your attack.”

Diarmuid felt his mouth go dry. He took the wine. “Which attack?” he asked, having a drink.

“You nearly cried while reading. It’s not a common reaction, as I mentioned. It tends to be a symptom of one who has experienced sexual violence. I presume you are still a virgin, though you did not answer that question, so you were not raped.”

He swallowed a mouthful of wine around the hard lump in his throat. “You presume much.”

“We could continue the story,” Ronan offered blandly.

Diarmuid set the cup aside, staring off as he considered how he wanted to respond. “I was delivered to the monastery when I was quite young,” he said. His tone was mild and distant, as if he was speaking of someone else. “I never left until we were sent on pilgrimage almost a month ago. There was no opportunity or desire to break my vows in that time so yes, I am a virgin.

“Once the pilgrimage ended, we came upon a clan whose chieftain had a…” he hesitated as he struggled for the right words, “sinful obsession with young men, preferably ones who were virginal. They were not prepared for my companion to be a werewolf so they let us go. Another clan took us in, but the chieftain regrouped and abducted two children to trade for us. We turned ourselves over immediately, of course.” Diarmuid could feel the eyes of both men watching his face, but it was vaguely unreal. He could tolerate talking to a vampire and a werewolf, but not about this. His eyes focused on some point in the middle distance, towards one of the bookshelves.

“They drugged both of us, him far more thoroughly than me. I suppose it was their solution for keeping him contained. As for myself, it was more to keep me unable to fight back, though I would not have succeeded against a trained warrior anyways. You are right; I was not raped. He hadn't the time before we were rescued.”

“Then what did he do?”

Diarmuid opened his mouth to reply but hesitated. He remembered of course. He could even feel the hands on him, where they touched him and how it burned, but he hadn’t the words to describe it. He hadn't told anyone, unable to make the language fit the experience. “He… touched me.”

“Where?”

Diarmuid did not reply. He didn’t move, just staring off as if trapped in the memory.

Ronan moved closer until his knees touched the young monk’s. Diarmuid looked up at him, his eyes blank and barely present.

“Would it help if I forced you to tell me?” Ronan asked softly, leaning close.

“Why would you want to help?” His voice was deceptively calm.

“Perhaps it is for my own selfish reasons.”

“I would not remember what I said, so your assistance would be useless to me.”

Ronan reached out, cupping Diarmuid’s face with his hands. One thumb stroked across the human’s lower lip. “Did he kiss you?”

It was almost hypnotic, although less like magic and more like a serpent about to strike. “No.”

“Did he hurt your mouth in any way?”

“He said he would cut out my tongue if I spoke.”

Ronan’s hands slid down, thumb stroking over the hollow of his throat. “Did he strangle you?”

“No.”

Ronan grasped the edge of the scapular, pulling it up and over the monk’s head. Diarmuid let him, although a small frown tugged at his lips.

Ronan’s hands slid over the exposed collarbone and down until he could feel the hard lines of the other man’s pecs and the small nubs of his nipples under his fingertips. The frown deepened and Diarmuid shied back, uncomfortable. “Did he touch you here?”

“No,” Diarmuid said, “and I thank you for not continuing.”

Ronan ignored him and let his hands continue down without lingering. He did not add any extraneous strokes, watching instead the young man’s face too closely for comfort. Long fingers traced over Diarmuid’s ribs, making tension suddenly sing through the smaller body with remembered pain. “Here.” It wasn’t a question.

Diarmuid swallowed. “I had a cracked rib. He would squeeze my side to punish me.” The rib had since healed, but it had him intensely uncomfortable to have the dangerous vampire’s hands spread wide over his waist.

Fortunately, they didn’t linger, sliding down toward Diarmuid’s slender hips. The monk caught then before they could cup them, stopping the exploration from continuing.

“Here?” Ronan asked, heedless.

“Stop,” Diarmuid said, and for the first time, the heated edge of anger slipped into his tone.

“You cannot talk about it and I strongly doubt you will show me. You need someone to know.”

“Do I?” he asked, his voice hard. His dark eyes glinted in the candlelight as he stared at Ronan. “And why should that someone be you?”

Ronan stared into his eyes, then the vampire suddenly closed the distance, his lips moving against Diarmuid’s. The monk gasped in surprise, which let Ronan slot their mouths together, his tongue sliding against the human’s. It was just as stunning as when Branna had done it. He could feel the press of fangs against his lips, could taste old blood on his tongue. It was nauseating, and yet, it was still thrilling. Some part of him didn’t want to fight the predator touching him. If the vampire was enamoured, he wouldn’t hurt him, would he?

Diarmuid’s hands grasped Ronan’s tunic, to pull or push away, he wasn’t sure. Ronan stroked Diarmuid’s tongue with his own when pulled away, leaning into his ear.

“Has he kissed you?” the vampire breathed into his ear. “Has he tasted your tongue like I have?”

Diarmuid flushed darkly, a whirlwind of feelings rushing through him at the reminder of the mute. He glanced sideways to see that the man was still, obviously fighting with himself. His brown eyes met Diarmuid’s and the younger man squirmed, sure his companion could hear what the vampire was saying.

Ronan’s mouth grasped the lobe of his ear, sucking on it gently as he pressed forward, moving Diarmuid back into the couch. The warm mouth on his skin made him shiver, but a strange, helpless feeling was starting to twist in his gut and tighten his throat.

“There was one thing the chieftain did,” Diarmuid said, a little panicked at how breathless he sounded. When Ronan hesitated and looked at him, he met the bright gaze head-on. “He was honest about what he wanted. He didn’t try to trick me or lie.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed in anger as he snarled lowface inches from Diarmuid.

The monk didn’t back down. “All you have done since we have started is talk of sex and try to make me uncomfortable. If that is your price, then say so. If you want to fight the werewolf, then say that. But if you truly want companionship, this is not it.”

Diarmuid could not push him off, but he did stare him down.

“And you would know, would you not?” Ronan spat, sitting up. “A monk of St. Benedict, running across the countryside without a task or care in the world, escorted by a werewolf. But you are not a monk, are you? You are but a novice, no formal vows to break. I wonder if your abbott would find you still worthy of those robes.” Ronan left, starting up the stairs.

Diarmuid stared off, not physically acknowledging the vampire's words. It wasn’t as if he hasn’t thought them himself. He didn’t really know where it put him or what he was supposed to do, but he was trying.

A hand gently touched his arm and he looked over. The mute was there, was always there, and watching him with something careful in his eyes.

“I suppose we should sleep while we can,” Diarmuid said softly.

The mute offered him back the scapular. He took it, but did not put it on as he set about tidying the room. He gathered up the remaining food as the mute fluffed the pallet and they carefully extinguished the candles before going upstairs. The mute saw to the fire as Diarmuid readied their beds, the two having long ago become used to working in tandem. As before, Diarmuid knelt and led them in a prayer, taking some time for silent contemplation and to ask Christ for some guidance. He didn’t know if he deserved any, considering the situation, but he asked all the same.


	5. Chapter 5

The light was bright when Diarmuid awoke. He guessed it to being closer to midday than when he had risen yesterday. He hadn’t any real work to do, but he could pray then try to get some more sleep. As he rolled over, however, he stilled, noticing the figure watching him.

The wolf was sitting on his own bedding, one knee pulled up to his chest. His golden eyes were focused intently on Diarmuid, aware that the younger man was awake.

“Good morning,” Diarmuid said cautiously. He’d never had a calm conversation with the wolf before.

“I do not like it when he touches you,” the wolf replied, gaze intent.

He should have known there would be no room for pleasantries. “Neither do I.”

“Why do you allow it?”

“I don’t intend to.” He had trouble explaining. Perhaps it was the obedience drilled into him.

“Then let us stop him.”

“He is owed recompense for saving my life. I don’t like him touching me but I also do not want a fight with him over it.”

A discontent sound rumbled from the wolf’s throat. He moved then, rolling forward to crawl across the floor to Diarmuid. It was oddly graceful. “We can smell him on your skin,” he said, leaning close to breathe in against Diarmuid’s neck. “It makes us restless and we long to have it gone. Let us.”

Diarmuid watched him, feeling a strange stirring in his stomach that he didn’t understand. He reached up, gingerly cupping one side of the wolf’s face in his hand. “Are you two beings in one flesh?” he asked softly, searching the golden gaze.

The wolf sighed in pleasure, leaning into the touch. “Yes and no. We are he, but a part of him that he does not wish to acknowledge. We would be so much happier if he would just let us be.”

“What would you do?”

“Claim you.” The wolf looked at him then. ”Bite you all over and roll you in our scent so that there will be no question that you belong with us.”

Diarmuid froze. “Claim?”

“You are ours: our partner, our pack. If you let it, perhaps even our mate. But we allow it not to be consummated, even if we don’t understand it.”

“Mate?” he asked weakly. “Is that how he feels?”

“He doesn’t know how he feels,” the wolf said. “We think it foolish to let a young and beautiful mate escape us.” He leaned in and rubbed his cheek against Diarmuid’s. “Let us take him away. Please.”

The warmth in Diarmuid’s belly grew at the longing in the wolf’s tone. Being called beautiful made him flush, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew what was being asked of him, and he suspected that he should resist it, but an itching along his skin made him hesitate. Beyond his own curious yearning, the health and safety of the mute was all important to him. It was second only to his love for God, and even then he was sometimes unsure. He would do anything to protect his companion. He nodded, preparing himself for the unknown. The wolf swooping down to claim his mouth still managed to surprise him.

The kiss was simple, but there was such intensity that it immediately left him breathless. A small sound came from the wolf’s throat. It seemed pained, almost desperate, and Diarmuid suddenly wasn’t sure how he felt about this. Heat coiled in him, but he also worried for the mute. Was the man underneath even aware?

The wolf pressed against him, urging him onto his back. He nearly protested, instead turning his face away to break the kiss. The wolf held his weight above him but pressed close, moving against him in a way that made the heat tighten in his belly. However, it really did seem like the wolf was simply trying to mark him with his scent.

“Does he know you’re doing this?” Diarmuid asked.

“The other?” the wolf murmured against the skin of his throat. “He wants this as well; he just doesn’t know how to ask for it from you, or even if he should.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Diarmuid pushed him back and sat up, trying to put his thoughts into order. “Is he aware of this?”

The wolf studied him for a long moment. He then closed his eyes. A shudder ran over his frame as he breathed. Slowly he opened his eyes and they were once again brown.

“Are you okay?” Diarmuid asked.

The mute’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, looking down. “Perhaps I should ask you that.”

Diarmuid also looked away, flushing. “Honestly, I’m a little tired of everyone trying to kiss me. I'm… I’m not sure how I feel about it.” He looked sideways at his friend. “When I talk to the wolf, do you remember?”

“Yes,” he said after a short pause. “We’re not as separate as I would like.”

“So you are also frustrated by the vampire?”

“We should destroy him. There is no redemption for a creature like that.”

“There are those who would say the same of you.” Diarmuid shook his head. “Although I agree with you, he saved my life. For whatever reason he did so, I need to honor his request. I just wish I knew exactly what he wanted, because he is not being honest and it’s vexing to play his mind games.”

The mute frowned, finally looking up at Diarmuid. He then sighed, shaking his head. “Of course you wouldn’t understand.” His tone was both exasperated and a touch fond. “You are too good for this world of monsters.”

Diarmuid wasn’t sure he liked that. “If you know what he wants then please just tell me.”

“He wants you, Novice,” he answered softly. “He wants to corrupt you, make you unworthy, and have you be complicit in your own downfall. I’m not sure what he wants after that: to make you what he is, release you, or simply kill you, but his current goal is defilement.”

He blinked, confused. “But that makes no sense. Humans are naturally sinful.”

“Did you not hear him before? He said that he felt God’s touch on you. You were the one who carried the relic, who was guided by God.”

“But I killed Brother Geraldus,” he said softly, looking a little stunned.

“I’m not sure that’s really what happened, but even if it was, I pray God has forgiven you that sin if you can so easily forgive me of mine.” The mute cupped his face. “I don’t claim to know God’s mind or his ways, but Ronan thinks this. He will spend his time trying to defile you, who he sees as treasured by God.”

Diarmuid looked shocked, trembling slightly in the mute’s hands. “If that is true, then this is a very dangerous game. What do we do?”

“Pray,”he said softly. “When we can, during the day, I will try to help you with anything he says or does but I am little better than he.”

“That’s not true,” Diarmuid snapped immediately.

“Novice, I am a monster--”

“If your theory is true, then I have not suffered in the eyes of God for my love of your companionship.”

“And if you have?”

Diarmuid closed his eyes, forcing himself to consider this. “Ronan is correct. I have taken no formal vows and so have broken none, but I try to live to be worthy of them, and I have failed in many ways. I refuse to go back to my monastery for fear of rejection and instead wander in these robes as if I’ve any right to them.”

“Novice,” the mute started softly, but Diarmuid would not be swayed.

“There are so many more reasons for my fall from grace than your presence.” He looked down at his clasped hands. “I don’t know why God is testing me like this and it's not my place to ask, but I know in the depths of my being that your presence is a blessing. Nothing will change my mind on this.” He looked back up at the mute, dark eyes wide and earnest. “You are a part of my strength. I would be lost without you.”

The mute grasped him, holding him close so that their foreheads could touch. They stayed like that for a long time, breathing each other’s air. Finally, Diarmuid looked up at him.

“Are you aware of what the wolf does?” he asked softly, staying close.

“Yes,” he replied. “I may not have control to stop it, and it might be strange and unclear, but I remember.”

“Oh,” Diarmuid said, unsure how to respond. “It seems rather possessive of me. It said it wanted me as its mate?” He was still unsure he was understood that correctly.

The mute looked away, considering his words. “That’s… a simpler way of explaining it. The wolf and I are one, but it is also the more primal impulses that I try to ignore. It thinks you compliment us well and we would make a formidable team. Part of its desire is for you to be like us.” The last words were bitter, like he was tired of having this never ending argument. “I will not let that happen.”

Diarmuid felt a chill. The wolf wanted to make him a werewolf. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the creature, even if he had no doubts about the mute. He would rather not have that happen. What confused him the most, however, was the strange tightening in his stomach that almost felt like disappointment. That, he really didn’t understand. What was it that he had hoped for? That the mute might want to kiss and mark him as well?

“We should eat,” he said, turning away to the food by the hearth.

The mute nodded, his expression filled with something Diarmuid couldn’t place. “I will go hunt,” he said.

As he moved to rise, Diarmuid grabbed his arm. “The bite,” he said, suddenly worried. How could he have forgotten? “Are you well? How is it?”

The mute hesitated in surprise. He let Diarmuid take his wrist and turned it to show the unmarked flesh. The monk’s thumb softly ran over the skin as if checking for damage before he released him.

“I'm glad you’re okay,” Diarmuid said. He then turned to the banked fire and knelt to begin prayer.


	6. Chapter 6

It was not long after sunset when Ronan appeared. Diarmuid had cleaned up, slept some more, then was back to praying when he arrived. The mute was between the monk and the door, watching over him protectively. When he saw Ronan, he threw a small twig at the praying man. It bounced off of his cheek and caught in the dark curls. Diarmuid’s words did not stall. They did soon come to an end, and when they did, he gave the mute a dry, unamused look, plucking the twig from his hair. He rose, smoothing down the scapular he had replaced.

“Good evening, Ronan. I pray you rested well?” he said politely, walking to the vampire.

One red eyebrow arched. “You pray for me, do you?”

“Of course.” He waited in front of Ronan as the man was blocking the door.

“Do not waste your precious breath and words on me, little novice. Your God does not hear my kind.”

“You said that you saw his touch on me. If that is so, then I choose to serve that connection by praying for those that need it, such as yourself.”

Ronan grabbed him by the robe, hauling him close with a snarl. It was impossible not to notice the needle-sharp fangs. “It is not your prayers I want, boy. If you are so eager to serve, perhaps we should move on to what I really want.” The threat hung heavy and sharp.

Diarmuid did not flinch. “Perhaps we should,” he said calmly.

Ronan considered him for a long moment. He finally smiled. “Is that what you want?” he nearly purred. He released Diarmuid and leaned against the door frame. “Then strip.”

The younger man hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”

The vampire's smile turned mocking. “If you want to move on to what I want, then take off your clothes.”

He knew what the vampire was saying, and he knew what he thought the man wanted. In a way he wished he could call the vampire’s bluff, but he wasn’t sure it was one. Besides, he couldn’t bring himself to that much vulnerability.

Diarmuid frowned up at him. “Is that what you want? Sex?”

“It's a wonderful place to start.”

He shook his head. “That does not truly serve either of us.”

Ronan snorted. “So says the virgin monk. You don’t know of what you speak, so be silent.” He pushed off the door frame, moving down the stairs.

Diarmuid watched him go, feeling uncomfortable again but trying to let that ease. The vampire was going to unnerve him. He just had to try his best to let it pass over him. Resolution in hand, he headed down the stairs with the mute following behind.

Ronan awaited them in the same room All was set up as before except there was a checkered board on a table next to the couch. Ronan gestured for Diarmuid to take his seat. There was tension between the two predators as they stood facing each other. The mute calmly offered his wrist and Ronan took it and fed. As before, the mute winced slightly in pain. Unlike before, the pain didn’t seem to lessen. When Ronan finished, the mute pulled away a bit abruptly, grasping his wrist as he went over to the pallet to sit down. Diarmuid considered asking about it but he was unhappy with the slightly smug tilt to Ronan’s lips and his friend’s discomfort. He coolly ignored the interaction, remaining placid and quiet as he watched Ronan take his seat.

For his part, the vampire seemed amused that Diarmuid had not yet spoken. He cocked his head and watched the monk, but Diarmuid calmly gazed back, practically radiating grim stillness. Ronan had an eternity to outwait him, but Diarmuid only needed to wait six more days. Ronan eventually looked over at the board.

“Have you played chess, little monk?”

“I have not,” he replied. He also glanced at the board. “It is a game?” He seemed doubtful.

“One of skill and strategy.” Ronan swiftly set up the board and explained the rules. They slowly played through a round as Diarmuid learned the game mechanics. When Ronan claimed his king, he gazed pensively at the board.

“It is a battle, then.” His voice was tinged with disappointment.

Ronan began to reset the board. “What do you know of battle, little monk?”

“I know that man has a strong desire to dominate one another.” He picked up his queen and studied it, turning the stone figure in his hand. “I know that one can become so used to being in battle that they see spies and enemies in every shadow, and I know that men like this will self-immolate before they will consider anything less than their complete dominance.” He put the queen back down and calmly looked to the vampire. “Black moves first, yes?”

Ronan cocked his head. “You do not object to playing?” he asked as Diarmuid moved a pawn.

The monk shrugged. “I do not mind. I just don’t care if I lose. If you enjoy the game, we can play, and I will do my best.”

They played the game several times. Diarmuid felt more comfortable each time, although he never won. Still, it interested him to see how Ronan chose to play.

Diarmuid studied the board, expression impassive as he considered his options to rescue himself from check. He heard Ronan chuckle and looked up. “What amuses you?” he asked.

“Your style,” the vampire replied, looking at him almost fondly. “You will not sacrifice a lesser piece for a more important one. More interestingly, you learn your opponent’s style, but do not use it to win. Instead, you just make the game interesting for them.”

Diarmuid moved his queen, knowing the checkmate was next. Instead, Ronan moved the queen back and shifted his pawn. The pawn disappeared next move, but then his queen was aggressively moved, ending the threat.

“A pawn should not be lost to save a king,” Diarmuid said.

“Even if saving the king saves the rest?”

Diarmuid considered for a long moment. He then flicked over the king. “That saves them all.”

Ronan shook his head. “If you do that, then there is no game.”

“If there is no game, there is no reason to sacrifice anyone,” was the counter.

The vampire watched as the monk reset the board calmly. “You would not sacrifice the pawn to save the rest?”

“The pawn should sacrifice,” he said. “That is different than the pawn being sacrificed. It should be the pawn’s choice.”

“The pawn is stone. It hasn’t a choice.”

“Then as the one who is responsible for the safety of the pawn, it is my duty to protect it. It is no less deserving than the king or the queen.”

“So, you believe the chieftains should submit themselves to the axes of foreigners to save their people?”

Diarmuid didn’t seem disturbed at the very real example. “I believe it is the choice of all native to this land to die defending it. As long as its their choice, then it becomes their sacrifice.”

“Would you die to defend this land?”

Diarmuid shook his head. “I have no fondness for the Normans, but I have no land to defend. However, I would die to protect the people on it.”

Ronan snorted. “You are so good it is sickening. Is there anything bad within you? Anything wicked at all?”

“Of course,” he answered, unphased. “I am only human, and we are sinful by nature.”

“And what sins are those? Don’t tell me murder; defending yourself is hardly wicked.”

He finally frowned, looking up. “Murder is a sin, no matter the reason.”

Ronan waved his hand dismissively. “Glutton and sloth are hardly your sins, nor is pride or rage. Lust perhaps?”

Diarmuid remained calm, expression bland as he refused to rise to the bait. “Did you wish to play again?”

“You are young,” the vampire continued, heedless to the topic change. “Surely your body must have its own wants.”

The human sighed. “How many times do you intend to return to this conversation? If there is something that you wish to know or some goal in mind, I would ask that you state it.”

“But that is not how a seduction works, little one.” Ronan took hold of one of Diarmuid’s hands, pulling it to him. He studied the long fingers and their short, dirty nails before he pushed the hand back so the palm faced him. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against the fingertips, eyes drifting up to Diarmuid’s. The human’s expression remained impassive, but his cheeks pinkened slightly, his heart rate increasing. Ronan slid his lips across the calloused palm then flicked his tongue out over it.

Diarmuid sighed, but it was a huff of annoyance. “I have no interest in your attempts at seduction.” He tried to pull his hand back but the vampire held him.

Soft lips trailed over his hand, following the lines and brushing against the callouses. He opened his mouth and let his fangs traced across the skin before his tongue flicked against it once more.

Diarmuid’s breath shook slightly, the skin prickling up his arm. He pulled again, trying to free his hand, but he didn't manage to shift the vampire. He hand was turned, his palm up, and the lips continued to trace over his wrist. The hair on the back of his neck rose in alarm, his breath catching. Before he could protest, a low growl of warning came from the mute and Diarmuid jerked, startled at the reminder that they were being watched. He flushed furiously and pulled again, harder this time. Ronan didn’t move, carefully laving the sensitive skin with his tongue.

“Release me,” Diarmuid said, bracing himself and pulling again.

“Have you ever imagined someone’s tongue on your skin?” Ronan murmured into his wrist.

Diarmuid stilled, startled by the question and blushing deeper. His gaze flicked briefly to the mute, remembering how the wolf had bit him, then he looked away. “No,” he answered softly, almost a whisper.

Ronan moved closer, easily avoiding the game board. Diarmuid almost jerked back as one hand reached up to cup his face, but the other still firmly held his arm. The vampire leaned in and Diarmuid wasn’t sure what to do. The careful licking made his heart race and his skin tingle, a faint warmth growing in his belly, but it was nothing like what had happened with the wolf and he certainly didn’t want it coming from Ronan. That he couldn't pull away, was held in place, made panic start to dance across the back of his tongue. It reminded him all too much of Daithi and his helplessness in the chieftain’s clutches. Then there was the fact that he was a monk, a servant of Christ sworn to chastity and this was a vampire frighteningly close to his veins.

Ronan’s lips slid over the shell of his ear, nosing his dark curls aside. One fang nipped gently as his lobe before his tongue skated down to the sensitive flesh just under, behind his jaw.

Diarmuid tried again to turn away. “Please stop,” he begged, frightened and titillated and very confused.

Ronan mouthed wetly at the soft flesh just behind his jaw. He was sure the vampire could feel his pulse on his tongue.

Movement made Diarmuid flinch. The board crashed to the floor, the figures scattering. When he could breathe, he saw Ronan at the other end of the couch, the mute leaning in over him. The wolf snarled at the hissing vampire, both men appearing as if they wanted to rip the other apart.

“Stop!” Diarmuid cried out. He could feel his body trembling uncontrollably, his heart pounding as if trying to break free. “Just… just stop!”

He got up, fleeing from the room. He was unable to process what had happened, unable to face it just then. He needed air and space, and he needed time to sort it in his head and he didn’t know if he was going to get it.

He pulled open the door to the castle and stepped outside, breathing in the cool night air. The stars were hidden by clouds, but where they were visible, they were immensely beautiful.

He didn’t know what to do. It was like his skin itched and refused to be soothed. He ran his hands over his arms, trying to calm.

The door behind him opened. To his surprise, Ronan stepped out, causing Diarmuid to scramble back a couple of steps.

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” he asked, trying to hide his trembling. He had been expecting the mute.

“No. I just reminded him that you promised not to leave my presence without first being dismissed.”

He almost winced. In his need for space, he had forgotten that. “What will you do, then?”

“Seek recompense.” Ronan stepped forward, lifting one hand. His pale fingers toyed with the edge of the scapular. “You will no longer wear this when we have our visits,” he commanded.

“And if I refuse?” He didn’t expect exposing more of his throat to the vampire was a good idea.

“Then out deal is broken and I will do with your life as I see fit.”

“I already told you--”

“If your life belongs to God, then he can step in and stop me if he wishes. Otherwise, I claim it as mine.”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Diarmuid said softly. Resigned, he reached up and pulled off the comforting cowl.

Ronan’s fingers moved up to trace a sharp collarbone. “I’m sure I have sufficiently explained,” he murmured, as if entranced. “It is your innocence that keeps you from seeing what is before you. I have spent many years alone, young one. I ache to touch something beautiful, to revel in that innocence and be buried in it.”

Diarmuid flushed darkly. “I don’t want that.”

“I have time to convince you.” Ronan stepped closer, so that their bodies were almost flush against each other. His thumb reached up to trace the line of the younger man’s jaw. “You don’t know how good it can be.”

Diarmuid forced himself to breathe, to not be distracted by the tingling caresses or the panic that brushed against the back of his mind. “It you are going to ignore my refusal, then you should just take what you want and let us be.”

Ronan chuckled low in his throat, amused. “Oh no, little one. You will submit yourself willingly, needfully. But if you ever run from me again…” His hand tightened, clasping Diarmuid’s jaw and forcing his head back. It left the pale line of his throat bare and alarmingly vulnerable. “If you run, I will take my recompense in blood and leave you too weak to try a third time. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Diarmuid whispered, the trembling increasing. It was strange. He was both very afraid, and yet baring himself in such a way, being vulnerable enough to force another to take care of him felt good. He didn’t understand it, but it felt like a weight was eased from him.

Ronan pressed his advantage. He leaned down, capturing the pale throat between his lips, licking it and searching over for spots that made the younger man shiver. A hand slid back into his hair as teeth worried gently over the same spot the wolf had bit him, sending spikes of heat through him. However, the reminder of the werewolf crashed through him and he stiffened.

“Where is my companion?” Diarmuid asked firmly, struggling against the hold on him.

Ronan tried to soothe the human. “He is safe. Have no fear.” He leaned toward Diarmuid’s collar but hands on his chest made him hesitate.

“Our deal was also that I could refuse any activity. I’ve not exercised this right before, but I am now. I am refusing. Let us go back inside.”

The vampire stilled for a moment, body stiff as stone. Suddenly, Diarmuid was forced back into the wall of the castle, the hands on him tight and holding his face up to Ronan’s. “Why?” the vampire hissed, green eyes practically glowing in his frustration. “Why do you obsess so over that beast?”

“He is not a beast,” Diarmuid snapped quickly. “He is my friend. I have more reason to trust him than I have you.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. He pulled Diarmuid away and inside, controlling the human’s movements with a firm hand on the back of his neck. They went directly to the sitting room. The mute was on the pallet, one hand pinned to the wall with a dagger embedded into the stone that he couldn't pull free. Diarmuid barely made a sound of protest before he was released and Ronan was pulling the dagger free. The mute’s damaged hand immediately began to heal, but he seemed more worried about Diarmuid. Their eyes met, asking and answering concerns about each others’ well-being.

“Wolf,” Ronan commanded. Instantly the mute stiffened, his eyes flying to the vampire. The deep brown irises were swallowed in vibrant gold. “Grab the human.”

The wolf looked at Diarmuid, who seemed startled. Then he was up and holding Diarmuid’s arms in his hands. It wasn’t painful but it was firm in case the human struggled. Diarmuid did not try.

“Touch him.”

They both blinked at the command then looked at him. “Why are you having him to that?” Diarmuid asked.

“I will give you a reason to be afraid of him.”

Diarmuid’s mouth thinned, his eyes darkened into one of the few signs of anger seen from the monk. “I will not fear his will, only your foul control over it.”

Incensed, the vampire grabbed one of the stone chess pieces and flung it at the stubborn monk. It struck his left shoulder with a crack, making the young man cry out in pain. As Diarmuid grasped the area, tears stinging his eyes, Ronan snarled. “Go to your floor. Do not leave this night or I will make you regret it.”

Diarmuid stumbled back, terrified, but the wolf easily grasped him, picking him up and carried him up the stairs. He just held on, his shoulder throbbing in pain.

In their room, the wolf set Diarmuid down gently and knelt before him. He was nuzzled, then the man turned and stoked the fire in the hearth. He gingerly pulled the neck of the robe aside to bare the wounded shoulder to his examination, already blossoming with a bruise. The wolf took a loose hold of his left arm and cautiously rotated it, checking his mobility and pain levels. Diarmuid hissed, but he was able to move it.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Diarmuid said, his voice a little faint with pain. The wolf nodded in agreement, laying his arm back down.

Diarmuid was not pleased with how the evening had gone. He had not minded the game, but the way things had progressed had disappointed him. He supposed he should not be so surprised by the violent reaction from the vampire. Then again, many could say the same of werewolves.

He grasped the wolf’s wounded hand and turned it over. The damage had healed over, leaving only a faint mark across his palm. “I’m sorry this happened,” he said softly.

The wolf leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Diarmuid's wounded shoulder. It felt soothing and he wanted to sigh and relax into the touch. However, he was hyper aware of the attention from the vampire and over stimulated, in a way. He was tired of being touched and trying to figure out how to react. He pulled away gently, giving the wolf a faint smile.

“I’m going to go pray.” He grabbed the discarded scapular and rose, moving into a corner by a window. He pulled on the garment and up the hood. He took a moment to gaze out at the moon, soaking in its calm, cool beauty, then closed his eyes. His concerns fell aside in the face of his devotion as he began to murmur.


	7. Chapter 7

A hand on his shoulder shook him awake.  Diarmuid stirred, turning his head to look up at the mute.  Before he could question what was wrong, he heard a voice call out his name.  His gaze snapped to the door in surprise but he saw nothing but the sun through the window.

 

“Ronan?”

 

“On the stairs.”

 

Diarmuid looked at the mute, but then gestured for him to stay back and walked over.  The window on the second floor landing was the last in the stairwell that was not boarded over.  In the fading dimness of the rising stairs, he could see Ronan seated, just out of the edge of the light.

 

“Why are you here?” Diarmuid asked softly, concerned.  “I thought you could not be about during the day.”

 

“I cannot walk in sunlight,” Ronan replied, glancing with a wince at the bright window.  “But as long as I stay away from the rays, I am safe.” He reached for the neck of Diarmuid’s black robe but paused before he touched it.  “May I?” At the hesitant nod, he pulled the neck open to reveal the deeply purple bruise on the monk’s shoulder. He ghosted his fingers over the damaged flesh, earning a soft hiss of pain. “I am sorry.  I forgot myself last night.”

 

“For such an old creature, patience does not seem a talent of yours,” Diarmuid replied.

 

“Perhaps not,” he admitted.  “Allow me to show you a better talent.”  He tenderly laid his hand over the wounded shoulder and sighed, closing his eyes.  A strange warmth blossomed in the depth of the wound. It danced that fine edge between pleasure and pain, causing Diarmuid to flinch and nearly pull away.  It grew to aching heights, then slowly eased until disappearing completely. Ronan opened his eyes and pulled away his hand. Where the bruise had been, the damage was gone.

 

Diarmuid nearly stumbled down the stairs in shock.  Ronan caught him, holding him close so that he wouldn’t fall.  “How?” the young man asked, eyes wide.

 

Ronan laughed.  “You are in the company of a werewolf and a vampire and a little magic shocks you?”

 

Diarmuid didn’t know what to say.  He’d never seen such a thing. He knew the mute was a werewolf, but he’d never seen the man change forms, and Ronan looked almost ordinary.  None of it was as unavoidable as the power the vampire just displayed. His mind was blank, startled, and when Ronan leaned in to tenderly kiss the healed shoulder, Diarmuid did nothing to stop him.

 

“Beautiful boy,” Ronan murmured against his skin.  “You walk the edge of the shadows with your wolf and still know nothing of what’s there.  You must stay in the light, or they will consume an innocent thing like you.”

 

“Like you wish to?” he asked, still not thinking.  He didn’t shrink away when Ronan ran his hands over him, tracing his ribs and the flesh of his waist before stilling on his slender hips.

 

“Like I wish to,” he agreed.  He released the monk and smiled faintly.  “Resume your sleep, little one. I will see you in the evening.”  He rose and turned, climbing the stairs into darkness.

 

Diarmuid stayed, still stunned.  He felt as if his world had been turned upside down yet again.  What the vampire had done was a miracle for saints and yet he acted as if it were a natural thing.  Magic. Should it have occurred to him that it was possible? He didn’t know what to think. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to still his tumbling thoughts.

 

Hands touched his shoulders and he jerked away, stumbling up the stairs.  The mute simply stood there, lowering his hands.

 

“He healed my shoulder,” Diarmuid said, his voice sounding light with his shock.  “How did he… why…”

 

Pain flickered across the mute’s face, but he did not reach out.  Diarmuid wished he would, to stop his wringing hands, stop the agitation, to just make it stop.  He didn’t want to think anymore.

 

He finally moved, brushing past the mute.  “I need to sleep. We need to. The nights are long and we don’t know what will happen next.”  He went to his bedding and laid down, closing his eyes. He heard the mute follow behind slowly.

 

~~~

 

_ Ronan was sitting across from him, a fine wine glass held delicately in his hand. _

 

_ “Are you thirsty?” he asked, a smooth smile curling his lips and making Diarmuid’s pulse flutter. _

 

_ “Yes,” he whispered. _

 

_ Ronan turned to the side.  The mute was chained there, golden eyes staring blankly as the vampire sliced his throat with a dagger.  Blood poured from the wound, beautiful in the candlelight. Ronan healed the wound with golden light, the glass now full, and he presented it to Diarmuid. _

 

_ “Drink deep, beautiful boy.  Let him inside you.” _

 

_ Diarmuid took the cup and raised it to his lips.  The blood was hot and thick, almost sticky as it went down his throat.  It was like he could feel it everywhere, could feel hands everywhere. He didn’t know who they belonged to, the vampire or the werewolf, but they caressed his chest, fingers playing over his nipples and drawing them to peaks.  The sensitive skin of his bare belly quivered under their touch. When they slid farther down, he sighed, his body aching at the firm, hot grasp. He spread his legs for more. He hadn’t known anything could feel so good. _

 

~~~

 

The dream weighed heavily on Diarmuid's mind the next evening.  For whatever reason, Ronan was being very personable, a pleasant companion without the usual attempts at seduction.  The mute, of course, was quiet, sitting passively on his pallet and observing. They played chess, then Roan taught him several games with cards.  Diarmuid was unusually slow, fumbling the games, his mind distracted. A part of him wondered with sick dread if the two fey creatures could somehow tell what he had dreamed about.  No one said anything, but it still chased his thoughts. It frustrated him, trying to both focus on the games and ignore the strange tingling in his skin.

 

Around the middle of the night, Ronan called a break and Diarmuid took the chance to step outside.  The air was cool against his throat, making him feel even more exposed. The dream rattled uncomfortably in his head, causing warmth to pool low in his belly.  He swallowed and leaned against the stone wall of the castle, closing his eyes to focus on the crash of the sea against the cliffs. The familiar salt spray soothed him, dragging the itching need down a bit.

 

“Are you well?”

 

Diarmuid nearly shrieked, startled.  Ronan was standing before him, looking unconcerned at surprising the human so badly.  He cocked his head as Diarmuid tried to control his breathing.

 

“You are on edge tonight,” Ronan continued, studying him.  “I can smell the arousal you are trying to contain, but I'm not sure where its coming from.  I would assume the wolf, but I’m not smelling it from him.”

 

“You… what?” Diarmuid asked weakly.

 

“My nose is not nearly as strong as the wolf’s, but I can still smell the heat in your body.”

 

That was perfect.  Diarmuid wanted to sink into a hole.  The mute would have been smelling it since he’d awoken and had made no indication.

 

“I presume you have no experience taming these desires.”  Ronan sounded amused and that prickled.

 

“I am fine,” he nearly growled.

 

“Release is probably best at this level of frustration,” he continued, as if not hearing the protest.

 

Diarmuid flushed.  “I’m not--”

 

“Then again, you probably have little experience there, either.  Would you like for me to help you? I can call the wolf.”

 

“No!” Diarmuid snapped immediately.  The idea of discussing this, of knowing the mute knew, was… actually, intensely exciting.

 

Ronan stepped closer, fangs flashing in the moonlight as he grinned.  “Does he excite you?” the vampire murmured. “Have I miscalculated my competition?”

 

He swallowed, eyes on the fangs and remembering heavily the taste of blood on his tongue in his dream.

 

“Perhaps it is the danger.”  Ronan leaned in, purring into Diarmuid’s ear.  “Whatever the reason, I cannot imagine laying in a room with you, your lust so heavy in the air, and not touching you.”

 

He whimpered, the prickling under his skin pooling in his groin.  His skin felt so hot, the wool robes rough against the heightened sensitivity, particularly down where his reaction was greatest.  His eyes slid closed at the soft voice in his ear, painting an imagination already heavy with need. Another whimper crawled from his throat, his skin aching with the need to be touched.  Against his ear, he felt the vampire smile.

 

A loud snarl erupted from Diarmuid’s right.  He jumped, head whipping around to see the mute standing there, eyes golden yellow.  Rage twisted the man’s face as he glared at the vampire, teeth bared in a challenge. Before Ronan could reply, the mute had moved, shoving the vampire away from Diarmuid.  Ronan straightened to the challenge, the two creatures squaring off against each other. Panic clawed in Diarmuid’s throat as he realized they were going to fight over him.

 

“Stop!” Diarmuid cried out.  “Please… please don’t.”

 

Both men looked at him, eyes flashing, feral in the dark.  Frustration grew in him, unable to control his body’s hunger, unable to run away when he needed to, and not knowing what to do.  He wanted more, he wanted it to stop, he didn’t know what he wanted.

 

“Stop,” he snarled, tears prickling his eyes.  “I am not a toy to be fought over.” His hands clutched at the rocks behind him in effort to not run.

 

The wolf’s mouth thinned.  He looked like he wanted to argue but said nothing.  Ronan pushed him away.

 

“I was defending myself--”

 

“You know your actions agitate him and you enjoy it.”  He closed his eyes, desperately wishing he could have time to clear his head and think.  He was almost overstimulated by all of the attention. “Let us go back inside and play your games some more,” he said softly.  He could feel their eyes on him. The thought occurred to him that if they actually got along, he’d be in so much trouble.

 

“After you,” Ronan replied.

 

He opened his eyes and pushed away from the wall, turning to the door.  He felt helpless, as if he was willingly walking to his own doom, the vampire and the werewolf making sure he did not run away.  He hated to be so wary of his friend, but the wolf’s possessiveness worried him and the two shared the same flesh.

 

The rest of the evening was spent muted, Diarmuid numbly obeying Ronan’s requests for entertainment while the wolf silently watched.  They played more cards, then Ronan pulled out a book in Latin that told the tale of a saint for Diarmuid to read to him. At dawn, they went their separate ways and Diarmuid prayed for guidance.


	8. Chapter 8

Diarmuid could not sleep.  He tried, and it was plagued by confusing stress dreams that left him even more tired.  He finally sat up and watched at the mute stoked the fire. He needed to know.

 

“How much of what the wolf does is you?”

 

The mute stilled.  He turned and looked at Diarmuid a bit helplessly.

 

“It’s just… he is possessive and he called me his mate and I don’t know how much that is you because you are my friend and I feel safe with you.”  He swallowed, feeling his hands shake. He hated how weak he felt, unable to control his body’s impulses. He should be stronger than this. “And I don’t know what he wants and how much of it is what you want.”

 

The mute moved closer, pain and concern warring in his face.  He cupped Diarmuid's face in his hands, thumbs stroking soothingly across his cheeks.  The young man sighed and closed his eyes, letting his tension leak away at the comforting touch and he leaned into the caress. He grasped the mute’s tunic to keep him close.  Their hips were side-by-side, their chests turned to each other as their foreheads met, as close as they could get without crawling on top of each other.

 

They stayed like that for a long moment, the mute trying to help soothe Diarmuid’s distress.  It felt good, almost natural. An unbidden thought came to his mind, wondering if the vampire would leave him alone if there was nothing for him to corrupt.  Could that be the solution to both of their problems? He didn’t know, and he certainly would never use his friend as a tool, but the proximity was both comforting and making the heat pool in his stomach once again, the familiar scent of his companion easing the tension in his body.  It was Diarmuid who moved first, tipping his head so that his cheek brushed against the mute’s then pulling back slightly. He opened his eyes, tracing the mute’s face with his gaze, studying the features he knew so well. He swallowed thickly, feeling heat creep over his ears, but he was tired and confused and the longing that gnawed at him threatened to overwhelm.  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the mute's shoulder. “The attention, the touches, they overwhelm me. I have these memories, these dreams of hands, of Daithi and Ronan on my skin and I don’t want them. But they’ve awakened something.” He choked slightly. His body felt hungry and alive and he didn’t understand it.  “I don’t want to remember their touches. It’s wrong.”

 

The mute cupped his face again, tilting it to meet his eyes.  He shook his head, carding his fingers through the young monk's dark curls.  “You are not wrong,” he murmured, his voice so very soft. “What they've done to you, that is wrong.  What you feel is beautiful and human. Novice, you are not wrong.”

 

Tears pricked the edge of the young man’s eyes.  “Please,” he begged. “I don’t want to feel them anymore.”  He didn’t know what he expected the mute to do but he had no one else to ask for help.

 

The mute swallowed, his gaze flicking over Diarmuid’s face with adoration and something darker.  Still, he hesitated. “I--”

 

But Diarmuid interrupted, nearly pulling away.  He had crossed a line, he knew it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  I cannot ask… I don’t…”

 

He was young and so naive in such matters, a true novice.    He couldn’t even tell if it was something the mute truly wanted, or if he had simply been trying to help him preserve his vows; vows he had not yet taken, a dark part of his mind reminded him.

 

Diarmuid stilled with fingers touched his lips, calming his stuttered apology.  Dark eyes met his, wet with tears in a breakdown long in coming. Carefully, the mute leaned in and brushed his lips, giving Diarmuid room to run if he so desired.

 

The caress was electric and felt so natural and comfortable.  Diarmuid breathed him in, inhaling the the scent of the man he trusted and adored.  This was what it should feel like, safe and warm, and a small noise, pained with longing, crawled from his throat.  He pressed closer, deepening the kiss. The mute’s fingers tangled in his hair, tipping his head and moving hungrily against his mouth.  It set his skin on fire, made his bones water. A hot tongue slid into his mouth, showing him what to do.

 

Diarmuid was nearly beside himself.  All of his life, he’d been taught control, calm, caution.  He’d tried to maintain his control in the face of such foreign sensations and needs, but the mute’s mouth on his sent it draining away.  He whimpered as the mouth moved from his own and stroked over his neck. He tipped his head back with a soft gasp, aware of his vulnerability in the face of the werewolf but completely unafraid.  Teeth scraped against his skin and it was good. He knew then what he wanted.

 

He parted his lips, ready to beg for what he craved, but a moment of shame caught the words in his throat.  The sound came out strangled, a whimper of want and confusion in the face of what he’d been taught was sinful and wrong.  He wanted to be touched, to have the memory of the other hands wiped away so that they no longer haunted him. Was that so bad?

 

A deep sound rumbled from the mute’s throat, reassuring.  He pressed their faces close, giving Diarmuid time to decide what he wanted.  Tears stung his eyes at the tenderness and the older man’s thumbs gently brushed the wetness away.  The look in his eyes asked a question and Diarmuid nodded. Despite the shame that haunted the back of his mind, he knew that if there was anything in life he could trust, it was God, and it was the mute.

 

The man’s hands, broader than Diarmuid’s and rough from battle, slid down his sides, feeling the outline of the slender body through the robe.  His mouth dipped down to latch onto an exposed collarbone, laving it with his tongue in slow, soothing strokes. Diarmuid’s breath hitched, his eyes gazing blankly into the middle distance as he focused on the titillating sensations.  The mute’s reassurance had emptied his mind so that he hung on hands and mouth.

 

The mute drifted from his collarbone to dip his tongue briefly against the hollow of Diarmuid’s throat before he pulled away.  He urged the younger man to lay back, sliding his hand further down to the black shoes. He helped Diarmuid shuck them off, then drifted over slender ankles and farther up, under the robe.  Another soft whimper came from the young monk as he glided his hands up, dancing over strong legs and a muscular torso, forcing the robe off. Diarmuid had been bare before him once before, when he had been rescued from the Baron de Merville’s camp with a cracked rib.  At that time, his discomfort had been eased by careful hands tending to his wounds. This time, his body was the full focus and his nerves tingled as he was admired. It didn’t take long for the mute to to lean down and tease one pert nipple with his tongue. Diarmuid’s gasp was shocked, his eyes widening before drifting closed as he shifted restlessly on the bedding.  The sensation shot directly to his groin, which sent aching tendrils of fire throughout his limbs. It was unfamiliar, not something that had ever been done to him and he wasn’t sure how to react. His hands moved to sink fingers into the mute’s, whimpering as the man gently sucked and laved the sensitive flesh. He turned to the other peak, giving it the same treatment and slowly let his hands drift.  Diarmuid's attention was caught between the hot mouth on him and the wandering hands, tension growing as they roamed. When they skimmed his hips, a thrill of fear caught him off guard but they didn’t hesitate, continuing down to stroke the back of his thighs. When they stroked back up and cupped his buttocks, Diarmuid couldn’t swallow his whimper.

 

The hands immediately moved away, stroking over his stomach.  It was only then that Diarmuid realized that the mute's mouth hand moved farther down, simply breathing against his abs.  He looked down, blinking uneasily, afraid that he’d made a mistake. The look in the older man’s eyes was warm and reassuring, waiting to see if he was well.  It made him want to continue, although he didn't know what to expect. Slowly, the fingers stroked down until they grazed the seam of his thigh and groin. It made Diarmuid’s hips jerk up, the strange, fluttering sensation sending the heat spiraling higher.  He let his head fall back onto the bedding, his eyes closing so that he could better feel how the mute touched him.

 

The fingers trailed inward, drifting over his pelvis until they reached Diarmuid’s cock.  They slowly traced up the stiff flesh, pulling a drawn-out moan from the younger man. Diarmuid’s hands dug into the bedding beneath him, twisting in the cloth at the too-soft sensation driving him wild.  Any thoughts of hesitancy or shame were completely absent from his mind as the touch on him became firmer, hand wrapping around him and stroking. The mute’s tongue drifted over one hip, hot and wet and almost distracting until it, too, landed on his cock.

 

Diarmuid actually shrieked in shock and surprise, his mind whiting out from the sensation.  He had not known that was something that was done. The mute’s hands went to his hips, holding him firmly even as his thumbs stroked soothingly.  His tongue lapped over the younger man’s length, letting him become familiar with the sensation. He couldn’t writhe too much, the strong grasp keeping him still, but his back arched with his need to move, to do something, to find more.  The tongue slid over the head of his cock, teasing the slit and he whimpered.

 

Wet heat surrounded him then slowly started drifting down, enveloping him.  One hand lashed out, burying into the mute’s curls to have some knowing of what was happening, trying to wrap his mind around it.  It was useless, the bobbing of the man’s head under his hand just helping to eradicate all thought from his mind. One leg slid up and the mute released his hip, wrapped his arm under Diarmuid’s thigh to let him rest it over his shoulder, heel digging into his back.  With the wet heat enveloping him and his body tangled up with the mute’s, it wasn’t long before the pooling heat in Diarmuid’s belly erupted. He cried out, needing to release the tension any way he could, the sound followed up by a small sob. His body burned and tingled, as if lightning had slipped under his skin and he didn’t know if it could stay contained.

 

It took a moment before he could come to his senses, little aftershocks making his pelvis and stomach tighten and shiver.  He could feel the mute’s head laying on one of his hips and looked down, panting, eyes wide in shock. The mute stroked his skin lazily, eyes dark and still hungry with gold circling the pupil.  He looked quite pleased with himself and lazily lapped at the fragile skin of his hip.

 

Before Diarmuid could find words, the mute tensed, his head snapping toward the door.  For one brief, horrible moment, Diarmuid expected Ronan to be standing there. Instead, the mute rolled and pushed Diarmuid’s robe to him, gesturing for him to hide.  Diarmuid fumbled with the clothing, his limbs still feeling weak and wobbly, but he managed to dress and moved silently on his bare feet to grab his staff in the corner.  He hid in an alcove in the back of the room, watching the door carefully as the mute slipped out.

 

Below, a cacophony of sound erupted, shouts and snarls and the hiss of blades being pulled.  Diarmuid had no idea who might be attacking the tower or why. Glancing out the window, he saw the dazzling light of the morning sun reflected on the sea.

 

The vampire.  Whether the men were here to kill Ronan or not, he would be defenseless at this time of the day.  Diarmuid didn't hesitate. He bolted across the room and up the stairs. He heard a shout but didn’t dare look back, ascending as fast as he could.  He bypassed the next floor, knowing it was only storage, and kept going until he came to the door to the remaining intact level. He tried to open it, then realized with some dread that it was bolted.  This was good for Ronan, but not as much for Diarmuid.

 

“Curses!” he snarled under his breath, feeling foolish.  He turned, pressing his back to the door as he tried to decide what to do.  The tight space of the staircase didn’t give enough room to fight. That helped if they had swords, not a much if they had daggers.  He heard boots on the stairs. Gulping, he readied himself, whispering a prayer.

 

The world tilted strangely, Diarmuid’s feet knocked out from beneath him.  He let out a small cry as he fell back and hit the stone hard. He gasped as he watched the thick door close and bolt, leaving him in twilight darkness.  Before he could comprehend, hands grasped him, pulling him to his feet.

 

Diarmuid blinked then awareness struck him.  Ronan. The vampire was awake.

 

“There are men here,” he gasped out quickly.  “I’m not sure… men have invaded the tower. I don’t know why.”

 

“And the wolf sent you to me?”

 

He shook his head.  “I was worried you’d be defenseless if they made it past him.”  At first he felt foolish, but so close to Ronan, he could see how glazed the vampire’s eyes were, how he was even more pale than usual.  He looked sluggish, eyes darting about as if nervous or trying to focus.

 

A bang and rattling on the door had them both jerking back.

 

“You may never believe this,” Ronan said softly in his ear, “but I am sorry about this.”

 

Before Diarmuid could question it, something pierced his throat.  He made a cry, muffled against Ronan’s shoulder as the pain sang through his nerves.  He jerked, struggling in sudden fear, but quickly, the pain faded into a swelling warmth.  It spread through his neck and down, making his fingertips twitch and legs tremble. Unconsciously, he stretched against Ronan, a soft sound of pleasure sighing from his throat.  Everything was suddenly blank. He wanted to stay there, unthinking and warm. Or was he cold?

 

Then it was gone.  He fell upon a soft mattress, blinking as he tried to make sense of his sudden chill and where he was.  The banging on the door continued, the wood splintering. He blinked, woozy, and realized Ronan had tossed him onto the bed, out of the way.  Unfortunately, his body protested movement and his staff was by the door.

 

Ronan threw open the door.  The men on the other side had not been prepared for that and one went down in a wash of blood as the vampire ripped his throat out.

 

It was a confusing display to Diarmuid, dizzy from blood loss.  There were too many people and far too much blood. Ronan was keeping them contained at the door until he suddenly lurched to the side.  The crossbow bolt flew past him and into the headboard of the bed Diarmuid was on. As the men managed to gain a foothold in the room, Diarmuid slid off the other side of the bed, using the bulk to hide behind.  Three men were in the room fighting Ronan. The vampire seemed to have them well in hand, but a fourth was in the doorway, crossbow in his arms, looking for an opening. As Diarmuid wondered how so many made it past the mute, worrying for his friend, the man in the door spotted him.  He raised the crossbow and Diarmuid managed to dodge the bolt, heart pounding.

 

The man rounded the foot of the bed, favoring the monk with a deadly smirk.  He pulled the arm of the crossbow back with some difficulty as Diarmuid looked for a place to hide.  He grabbed a pillow and threw it at the man, foiling his attempts to notch the crossbow. Without waiting to see what the man would do, Diarmuid rolled under the bed, coming out the other side.  He scrambled to the oak staff, his heart pounding. His head throbbed and he felt violently ill, but he swallowed down the nausea.

 

The man had managed to ready the crossbow and was reaching for a bolt when Diarmuid went on the offensive.  The crossbow was unwieldy, requiring both hands to control, the mechanism too delicate to use for shielding.  The man had to choose between dodging the monk’s attacks with no recourse or discarding the crossbow. Surprisingly, Diarmuid had the upper hand.

 

Or so he thought.  The man suddenly grinned at him.  “Watch your back.”

 

Diarmuid immediately ducked and twisted.  He swiped the legs of the man behind him then used the back end of the staff to do the same to the first man.  Both crashed, the crossbow dropping and released.

 

The man in front kicked out Diarmuid’s leg, making him stumble and was suddenly too close for the monk to retaliate.  He couldn’t move the staff and dropped it in favor of trying desperately to shove the man off of him.

 

“Filthy little whore!” the man snarled.  A dagger flashed, then the man was gone.  Diarmuid gasped in panic, his stomach a knot of pain.  He tried to flail, but he was still too woozy. Instead, he laid on the floor, trying to catch his breath.  Something caught his eye and he stared blankly at his hand. Why was there blood on it?

 

Someone knelt down beside him, hands touching his sides.  “Diarmuid?”

 

He looked up, blinking heavily as he panted.  Ronan looked grim, his gaze down at Diarmuid’s stomach.  His own eyes drifted down. For a long moment, he had trouble comprehending the hilt sticking out of his belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me.


	9. Chapter 9

“Oh,” he finally said, voice breathless.  It hurt, but somehow, he expected the pain to be greater. 

 

Ronan glanced at his face, then reached down and pulled the dagger free.   _ That _ hurt, pulling a low groan from the monk.  He clutched his stomach with pale, trembling hands.  He could hear steps coming but they seemed distant. Cool fingers cupped his chin as Ronan lifted his face.  Strangely, one thumb slid into his gasping mouth, coating his tongue with blood.

 

“No!” he heard from the door.  Ronan was jerked away then the mute was there.  He looked bloodied and roughed up, but safe. The man’s hands danced frantically over Diarmuid’s waist then cheeks.  “What have you done?!” he snarled at Ronan. Vaguely, Diarmuid was surprised to hear him speak to the vampire.

 

Ronan glared at him coldly, arms crossed.  “I’m saving his life. You’re welcome.”

 

“He would rather die!”  The mute turned back, looking beside himself.  “Novice… Novice, please, look at me.”

 

He tried.  He did for a moment, but then he couldn’t control them rolling back.  He felt so cold, body shaking uncontrollably. “Diarmuid,” he heard whispered.  “I’m so sorry.”

 

Sudden agony bloomed through his chest and stomach and he screamed, the tortured wail of a dying animal, before everything slid away.

 

~~~

 

The salt smell of the sea was the first thing he was aware of.  He opened his eyes, his curls tossed by the strong breeze. He stood on a beach, his beach, knowing the sand and sea of his home.  The waves crashed, water sliding over his bare feet. He distantly noticed the loose slacks and tunic he wore, a plain grey that matched the grim seaside.

 

“Brother.”

 

Diarmuid turned his head to the right.  He was vaguely puzzled to see Brother Ciarán standing there.  The man was as he remembered, black robed and scapular neat, barely shifting in the wind.

 

“Have I failed?” Diarmuid asked distantly, a soft sadness filling him through he wasn’t sure why.

 

“You are being given a choice.  Not many get that.”

 

Diarmuid looked back to the sea, then turned his head to the left.  A large space was drawn into the wet sand of the beach, etched out in a checkered pattern.  At one end, Ronan stood brilliant in white, dressed as he was in clacks and a tunic. On the other side, almost a shadow, was the mute in full black.

 

“Choose,” Diarmuid whispered softly.  He didn’t know what exactly he was choosing.  It wasn't between the two men, as that was hardly a choice; the mute would always win.  It was bigger than that, but he didn’t know how.

 

He stepped forward, slowly moving toward the board.  The two men didn’t look at him, gazing impassively at each other.  He stepped onto the board, his feet not disturbing the pattern. He looked between them, then slowly paced over to the mute.  The man finally looked at him.

 

An ache filled Diarmuid’s chest, a sadness so deep he couldn’t quite fathom it.  He reached up, cupping the man’s cheek with his hand. “I’m so sorry, my dearest friend,” he whispered.  The mute did nothing, but there was understanding in his eyes.

 

It broke Diarmuid’s heart to turn away, but he knew what his answer must be.  He walked back into the center of the board, facing Brother Ciarán. The monk was now flanked by Cathal and Rua, their gazes watchful and composed.  He stepped to the edge of the board and knelt, looking at them calmly.

 

“I submit myself to the Lord, our God.  As ever, I let him choose as he wills it.”

 

“And if you die?”

 

“As he wills it.”

 

“And if he casts you out?”

 

“Then I will forever try to be worthy of his forgiveness.”

 

Ciarán nodded.  “Very well.”

 

~~~

 

Diarmuid screamed.  It was a hoarse, pitiful sound, ripped from a throat made raw in its agony.  Stone was under his hands and he clawed at it, fire burning through his body.  Everything hurt, head to toe, even his eyes. He sobbed brokenly, shuddering and twitching on the floor.

 

Over the course of what felt like eternity, timeless in its misery, the burning dulled to an ache, then eased into nothing but nerves twitching at the memory.  Diarmuid panted on the floor, curled upon himself, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to calm. His mind flew as he attempted to remember what had happened. He shuddered as he recalled the vision of the beach, then fighting the man with the crossbow.  He’d been bitten by the vampire, an unwilling food source for Ronan, then stabbed. He remember the dagger with a jolt, his hand pawing at his stomach. The robe was torn, sticky with blood, but his belly was whole, no wound to be found.

 

There was strange percussion in the room, echoing in his ears like his own heartbeat.  He slowly opened his eyes, lifting his head from where he’d been curled on himself.

 

He smelled blood, so much blood.  It held notes, different from his own, though he couldn’t say what.  He could feel himself salivate, the scent making his stomach rumble. He’d have been horrified if he hadn’t been so overwhelmed.  Metal and leather hung under it, as well as the reek of unwashed bodies and the viscera of rended flesh. It reminded him vaguely of the slaughter at the Hollows so many weeks ago.  He heard a strange keening sound and realized it was coming from him.

 

There was movement beside him, making Diarmuid flinch.  Strong hands touched him with a tenderness that made him whine again, fearful and pleading.

 

“Novice…”

 

He looked up and blinked into the brown eyes of the mute.

 

“I don’t… what has happened?” he asked, overwhelmed.  Something was different, strange and frightening.

 

The mute pulled his face close, pressing their foreheads together.  It didn’t drown out the blood but the smell of the other man was rich, familiar, and soothing.  He clutched the mute’s tunic, moving closer before strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him onto the other man’s lap.

 

The mute stroked his hair, encouraging Diarmuid to bury his nose into his neck.  “You were stabbed, Novice. You took a dagger to your belly.”

 

“But--”

 

The mute gently hushed him, meeting his eyes.  “Ronan fed you his blood. He aimed to save your life by making you a vampire.”

 

Diarmuid’s eyes widened, horror spreading through him at an alarming rate.  “No,” he whined, starting to struggled. He reached for his neck, to claw at his skin and see if it was true, although he didn’t know how to tell.

 

The mute’s arms tightened like chains around him.  Dimly, Diarmuid noticed that he struggled to contain the younger man.

 

“You’re not a vampire.”  The mute held him, hushing him.  “Novice, you’re not a vampire.”

 

He wished he could believe that.  “But… but the blood…” His eyes drifted to the corpses around them.

 

“You’re a werewolf.”

 

Diarmuid froze.  He turned his head to stare at the mute in shock.  For his part, the other man seemed sad as he gently touched Diarmuid’s face.

 

“I knew you would not wish to survive like that,” he said softly.  “It could not be undone, but it might be cancelled by the wolf, so I took a chance.”  He looked down at his hands and Diarmuid’s gaze followed. They were clean, but not well, blood drying in the folds of skin and nail beds.  “I tore you apart, ripped you open with my claws.”

 

He sounded haunted, drowning in the horror of what he’d done.  Diarmuid leaned in, their brows touching again. The mute let out a shuddering breath.

 

“It worked,” he continued.  “I can can smell the wolf on you.”

 

“You can?”  He certainly felt different, but he felt alone in his skin.  What did the wolf feel like?

 

“I’m so sorry, Novice,” he whispered.  “I never wanted to damn you to my fate.”

 

Diarmuid knew he was wrong.  “I had a vision of Kilmanaan,” he replied as softly.  “Brother Ciarán was there, as well as Cathal and Rua. They gave me a choice between you and Ronan, but I would not choose.  My life belongs to the Lord and I still want to follow his will. I let him choose, to do with me as he will.” He nuzzled the mute and it felt so right.  “God chose you.”

 

“If you two are finished, I want you out.”

 

Diarmuid turned, startled by the other voice.  In a way, he knew the vampire was there, but he hadn’t been consciously aware of it.

 

Ronan looked exhausted, like survival instinct alone was what was keeping him awake.  Still, he looked disdainfully at them, as if they disgusted him.

 

“You tried to make me a vampire?” Diarmuid snarled.

 

Ronan stared at him coldly.  “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

 

He could feel the tense fury in the mute’s body, almost smell the spike in his temperature.

 

“I am,” he admitted softly.  “I would not wish to be a vampire, but I am alive, thanks to you.”

 

Something in Ronan’s expression softened, then turned sour.  “I release you from your promise. I want you both out of my tower by sunset.  Now get out.”

 

In a way, he could understand Ronan’s anger.  It was obvious that the thrill of trying to corrupt him was gone now that Diarmuid was a werewolf, and Ronan was bitter about it.  He understood, but he couldn’t sympathize with it

 

Diarmuid carefully climbed to his feet, the mute supporting him as he rose.

 

“Go with God, Ronan,” he said as his goodbye, relieved to be leaving.  The vampire sneered, fangs flashing in the low light.

 

Diarmuid just turned away, picking his way over the corpses and pools of blood littering the place.  He was starving, his stomach aching and growling. The sickly smell of the blood made his mouth water again, which turned his stomach.  He breathed through his mouth, trying hard to ignore the overwhelming scents.

 

The mute’s hand slid onto the crook of his neck and shoulder, warm on his bare skin.  It helped to settle him, making it easier to ignore the sensory stimuli.

 

When they reached their floor, the mute quickly packed up their stuff while Diarmuid spent time focusing on his body and how he felt.  He felt good, the rough wool scratching against his skin. Hunger gnawed at him, his body almost trembling with it, but he fought to keep it under control.  He turned to look at the mute.

 

“I’m hungry,” he said softly, almost apologetically.

 

The mute looked up at him and stilled.  Shock flashed across his face, then something wild settled in his eyes.  It made Diarmuid’s hair stand on end, skin prickling. He tensed and watched his friend approach, a fear he couldn’t quite pinpoint making him want to slink away.  Hands gently cupped his face

 

“Novice,” the mute breathed.  “Your eyes are golden.”

 

Oh.  Diarmuid swallowed.  “I’m hungry,” he repeated weakly, unsure if it explained it.  He hadn't realized anything had changed.

 

The mute practically purred, leaning in and running his cheek over Diarmuid’s jaw.  “I will feed you. I will hunt for you, and teach you how to hunt.” He leaned farther down, nuzzling the pale neck before him.  “We will take care of each other.”

 

A strange sense of calm replaced the fleeting fear and Diarmuid closed his eyes, humming his approval.  “Yes,” he murmured.

 

His friend moved, grabbing some salted meat and offering it to the monk, who took it and began devouring it.  He grabbed both of their packs and guided Diarmuid out of the castle, back into the thick forest.


	10. Chapter 10

Branna stepped lightly through the forest, footfall silent even as her body ached with exhaustion. She had spent a long day wandering widely through their territory, attempting to spread out the hunting. She had gathered herbs and plants for food and medicine, climbed a few trees on the sight of bird nests, and had been looking for rabbits when she came across a small family of wild pigs. That had been an exciting hunt, and she’d then needed to carry all of her treasures back to camp.

Once she arrived she’d expected someone to rush forward and assist her with her packages. No one did. Instead, everyone was buzzing, some looking toward Radha’s hut and others whispering amongst themselves. Her mother finally rushed forward, helping her lay down the pig and bundles of plants.

“Go,” she said with a kiss to Branna’s forehead.

Branna had no idea why there was so much excitement or how it involved her, but she rushed forward on silent feet. Once she broke through the crowd, she paused, taking in what she was seeing.

Radha stood before her hut, Muirne a few steps behind and looking as pleased as everyone else. Before the women were two men, one that Branna instantly recognized. She turned her gaze from the Hound to study his companion. It was Brother Diarmuid, but the time away had changed him. He no longer wore the robes of a monk, dressed in trousers and a tunic much like his companion and she wasn’t sure why. His body was relaxed, his smile pleasant and warm. He had always been slender, and though his face had thinned a bit, he was flush with life. The man seemed to know she was there and turned to look at her, smiling warmly.

Branna shrieked with glee and ran forward. She jumped onto him, wrapping arms and legs about his shoulders and waist as he caught her easily. Burying her fingers in his hair, Branna kissed him as she had before, sliding her tongue into his mouth to take him in. To her surprise and delight, he kissed her back, almost chuckling against her lips.

Branna pulled away, mystified by the changes in the monk. She stilled when she finally got a good look at his face. Those dark eyes, nearly black, slowly swum with gold as she watched. Her eyes widened and she looked up at the hound. He smirked at her, his eyes the same color as his wolf shone through. With a startling clarity, she knew and understood.

“Welcome home,” she breathed joyfully as the clan around them erupted with cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, Diarmuid and the mute safe where people know what they are and care about them. Hope you guys enjoyed the ride!


End file.
